Reprinted Pieces
by Charles Dickens
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman

THE LONG VOYAGE

WHEN the wind is blowing and the sleet or rain is driving against
the dark windows, I love to sit by the fire, thinking of what I
have read in books of voyage and travel. Such books have had a
strong fascination for my mind from my earliest childhood; and I
wonder it should have come to pass that I never have been round the
world, never have been shipwrecked, ice-environed, tomahawked, or
eaten.

Sitting on my ruddy hearth in the twilight of New Year's Eve, I
find incidents of travel rise around me from all the latitudes and
longitudes of the globe. They observe no order or sequence, but
appear and vanish as they will - 'come like shadows, so depart.'
Columbus, alone upon the sea with his disaffected crew, looks over
the waste of waters from his high station on the poop of his ship,
and sees the first uncertain glimmer of the light, 'rising and
falling with the waves, like a torch in the bark of some
fisherman,' which is the shining star of a new world. Bruce is
caged in Abyssinia, surrounded by the gory horrors which shall
often startle him out of his sleep at home when years have passed
away. Franklin, come to the end of his unhappy overland journey -
would that it had been his last! - lies perishing of hunger with
his brave companions: each emaciated figure stretched upon its
miserable bed without the power to rise: all, dividing the weary
days between their prayers, their remembrances of the dear ones at
home, and conversation on the pleasures of eating; the last-named
topic being ever present to them, likewise, in their dreams. All
the African travellers, wayworn, solitary and sad, submit
themselves again to drunken, murderous, man-selling despots, of the
lowest order of humanity; and Mungo Park, fainting under a tree and
succoured by a woman, gratefully remembers how his Good Samaritan
has always come to him in woman's shape, the wide world over.

A shadow on the wall in which my mind's eye can discern some traces
of a rocky sea-coast, recalls to me a fearful story of travel
derived from that unpromising narrator of such stories, a
parliamentary blue-book. A convict is its chief figure, and this
man escapes with other prisoners from a penal settlement. It is an
island, and they seize a boat, and get to the main land. Their way
is by a rugged and precipitous sea-shore, and they have no earthly
hope of ultimate escape, for the party of soldiers despatched by an
easier course to cut them off, must inevitably arrive at their
distant bourne long before them, and retake them if by any hazard
they survive the horrors of the way. Famine, as they all must have
foreseen, besets them early in their course. Some of the party die
and are eaten; some are murdered by the rest and eaten. This one
awful creature eats his fill, and sustains his strength, and lives
on to be recaptured and taken back. The unrelateable experiences
through which he has passed have been so tremendous, that he is not
hanged as he might be, but goes back to his old chained-gang work.
A little time, and he tempts one other prisoner away, seizes
another boat, and flies once more - necessarily in the old hopeless
direction, for he can take no other. He is soon cut off, and met
by the pursuing party face to face, upon the beach. He is alone.
In his former journey he acquired an inappeasable relish for his
dreadful food. He urged the new man away, expressly to kill him
and eat him. In the pockets on one side of his coarse convict-
dress, are portions of the man's body, on which he is regaling; in
the pockets on the other side is an untouched store of salted pork
(stolen before he left the island) for which he has no appetite.
He is taken back, and he is hanged. But I shall never see that
sea-beach on the wall or in the fire, without him, solitary
monster, eating as he prowls along, while the sea rages and rises
at him.

Captain Bligh (a worse man to be entrusted with arbitrary power
there could scarcely be) is handed over the side of the Bounty, and
turned adrift on the wide ocean in an open boat, by order of
Fletcher Christian, one of his officers, at this very minute.
Another flash of my fire, and 'Thursday October Christian,' five-
and-twenty years of age, son of the dead and gone Fletcher by a
savage mother, leaps aboard His Majesty's ship Briton, hove-to off
Pitcairn's Island; says his simple grace before eating, in good
English; and knows that a pretty little animal on board is called a
dog, because in his childhood he had heard of such strange
creatures from his father and the other mutineers, grown grey under
the shade of the bread-fruit trees, speaking of their lost country
far away.

See the Halsewell, East Indiaman outward bound, driving madly on a
January night towards the rocks near Seacombe, on the island of
Purbeck! The captain's two dear daughters are aboard, and five
other ladies. The ship has been driving many hours, has seven feet
water in her hold, and her mainmast has been cut away. The
description of her loss, familiar to me from my early boyhood,
seems to be read aloud as she rushes to her destiny.

'About two in the morning of Friday the sixth of January, the ship
still driving, and approaching very fast to the shore, Mr. Henry
Meriton, the second mate, went again into the cuddy, where the
captain then was. Another conversation taking place, Captain
Pierce expressed extreme anxiety for the preservation of his
beloved daughters, and earnestly asked the officer if he could
devise any method of saving them. On his answering with great
concern, that he feared it would be impossible, but that their only
chance would be to wait for morning, the captain lifted up his
hands in silent and distressful ejaculation.

'At this dreadful moment, the ship struck, with such violence as to
dash the heads of those standing in the cuddy against the deck
above them, and the shock was accompanied by a shriek of horror
that burst at one instant from every quarter of the ship.

'Many of the seamen, who had been remarkably inattentive and remiss
in their duty during great part of the storm, now poured upon deck,
where no exertions of the officers could keep them, while their
assistance might have been useful. They had actually skulked in
their hammocks, leaving the working of the pumps and other
necessary labours to the officers of the ship, and the soldiers,
who had made uncommon exertions. Roused by a sense of their
danger, the same seamen, at this moment, in frantic exclamations,
demanded of heaven and their fellow-sufferers that succour which
their own efforts, timely made, might possibly have procured.

'The ship continued to beat on the rocks; and soon bilging, fell
with her broadside towards the shore. When she struck, a number of
the men climbed up the ensign-staff, under an apprehension of her
immediately going to pieces.

'Mr. Meriton, at this crisis, offered to these unhappy beings the
best advice which could be given; he recommended that all should
come to the side of the ship lying lowest on the rocks, and singly
to take the opportunities which might then offer, of escaping to
the shore.

'Having thus provided, to the utmost of his power, for the safety
of the desponding crew, he returned to the round-house, where, by
this time, all the passengers and most of the officers had
assembled. The latter were employed in offering consolation to the
unfortunate ladies; and, with unparalleled magnanimity, suffering
their compassion for the fair and amiable companions of their
misfortunes to prevail over the sense of their own danger.

'In this charitable work of comfort, Mr. Meriton now joined, by
assurances of his opinion, that, the ship would hold together till
the morning, when all would be safe. Captain Pierce, observing one
of the young gentlemen loud in his exclamations of terror, and
frequently cry that the ship was parting, cheerfully bid him be
quiet, remarking that though the ship should go to pieces, he would
not, but would be safe enough.

'It is difficult to convey a correct idea of the scene of this
deplorable catastrophe, without describing the place where it
happened. The Haleswell struck on the rocks at a part of the shore
where the cliff is of vast height, and rises almost perpendicular
from its base. But at this particular spot, the foot of the cliff
is excavated into a cavern of ten or twelve yards in depth, and of
breadth equal to the length of a large ship. The sides of the
cavern are so nearly upright, as to be of extremely difficult
access; and the bottom is strewed with sharp and uneven rocks,
which seem, by some convulsion of the earth, to have been detached
from its roof.

'The ship lay with her broadside opposite to the mouth of this
cavern, with her whole length stretched almost from side to side of
it. But when she struck, it was too dark for the unfortunate
persons on board to discover the real magnitude of the danger, and
the extreme horror of such a situation.

'In addition to the company already in the round-house, they had
admitted three black women and two soldiers' wives; who, with the
husband of one of them, had been allowed to come in, though the
seamen, who had tumultuously demanded entrance to get the lights,
had been opposed and kept out by Mr. Rogers and Mr. Brimer, the
third and fifth mates. The numbers there were, therefore, now
increased to near fifty. Captain Pierce sat on a chair, a cot, or
some other moveable, with a daughter on each side, whom he
alternately pressed to his affectionate breast. The rest of the
melancholy assembly were seated on the deck, which was strewed with
musical instruments, and the wreck of furniture and other articles.

'Here also Mr. Meriton, after having cut several wax-candles in
pieces, and stuck them up in various parts of the round-house, and
lighted up all the glass lanthorns he could find, took his seat,
intending to wait the approach of dawn; and then assist the
partners of his dangers to escape. But, observing that the poor
ladies appeared parched and exhausted, he brought a basket of
oranges and prevailed on some of them to refresh themselves by
sucking a little of the juice. At this time they were all
tolerably composed, except Miss Mansel, who was in hysteric fits on
the floor of the deck of the round-house.

'But on Mr. Meriton's return to the company, he perceived a
considerable alteration in the appearance of the ship; the sides
were visibly giving way; the deck seemed to be lifting, and he
discovered other strong indications that she could not hold much
longer together. On this account, he attempted to go forward to
look out, but immediately saw that the ship had separated in the
middle, and that the forepart having changed its position, lay
rather further out towards the sea. In such an emergency, when the
next moment might plunge him into eternity, he determined to seize
the present opportunity, and follow the example of the crew and the
soldiers, who were now quitting the ship in numbers, and making
their way to the shore, though quite ignorant of its nature and
description.

'Among other expedients, the ensign-staff had been unshipped, and
attempted to be laid between the ship's side and some of the rocks,
but without success, for it snapped asunder before it reached them.
However, by the light of a lanthorn, which a seaman handed through
the skylight of the round-house to the deck, Mr. Meriton discovered
a spar which appeared to be laid from the ship's side to the rocks,
and on this spar he resolved to attempt his escape.

'Accordingly, lying down upon it, he thrust himself forward;
however, he soon found that it had no communication with the rock;
he reached the end of it, and then slipped off, receiving a very
violent bruise in his fall, and before he could recover his legs,
he was washed off by the surge. He now supported himself by
swimming, until a returning wave dashed him against the back part
of the cavern. Here he laid hold of a small projection in the
rock, but was so much benumbed that he was on the point of quitting
it, when a seaman, who had already gained a footing, extended his
hand, and assisted him until he could secure himself a little on
the rock; from which he clambered on a shelf still higher, and out
of the reach of the surf.

'Mr. Rogers, the third mate, remained with the captain and the
unfortunate ladies and their companions nearly twenty minutes after
Mr. Meriton had quitted the ship. Soon after the latter left the
round-house, the captain asked what was become of him, to which Mr.
Rogers replied, that he was gone on deck to see what could be done.
After this, a heavy sea breaking over the ship, the ladies
exclaimed, "Oh, poor Meriton! he is drowned; had he stayed with us
he would have been safe!" and they all, particularly Miss Mary
Pierce, expressed great concern at the apprehension of his loss.

'The sea was now breaking in at the fore part of the ship, and
reached as far as the mainmast. Captain Pierce gave Mr. Rogers a
nod, and they took a lamp and went together into the stern-gallery,
where, after viewing the rocks for some time, Captain Pierce asked
Mr. Rogers if he thought there was any possibility of saving the
girls; to which he replied, he feared there was none; for they
could only discover the black face of the perpendicular rock, and
not the cavern which afforded shelter to those who escaped. They
then returned to the round-house, where Mr. Rogers hung up the
lamp, and Captain Pierce sat down between his two daughters.

'The sea continuing to break in very fast, Mr. Macmanus, a
midshipman, and Mr. Schutz, a passenger, asked Mr. Rogers what they
could do to escape. "Follow me," he replied, and they all went
into the stern-gallery, and from thence to the upper-quarter-
gallery on the poop. While there, a very heavy sea fell on board,
and the round-house gave way; Mr. Rogers heard the ladies shriek at
intervals, as if the water reached them; the noise of the sea at
other times drowning their voices.

'Mr. Brimer had followed him to the poop, where they remained
together about five minutes, when on the breaking of this heavy
sea, they jointly seized a hen-coop. The same wave which proved
fatal to some of those below, carried him and his companion to the
rock, on which they were violently dashed and miserably bruised.

'Here on the rock were twenty-seven men; but it now being low
water, and as they were convinced that on the flowing of the tide
all must be washed off, many attempted to get to the back or the
sides of the cavern, beyond the reach of the returning sea.
Scarcely more than six, besides Mr. Rogers and Mr. Brimer,
succeeded.

'Mr. Rogers, on gaining this station, was so nearly exhausted, that
had his exertions been protracted only a few minutes longer, he
must have sunk under them. He was now prevented from joining Mr.
Meriton, by at least twenty men between them, none of whom could
move, without the imminent peril of his life.

'They found that a very considerable number of the crew, seamen and
soldiers, and some petty officers, were in the same situation as
themselves, though many who had reached the rocks below, perished
in attempting to ascend. They could yet discern some part of the
ship, and in their dreary station solaced themselves with the hopes
of its remaining entire until day-break; for, in the midst of their
own distress, the sufferings of the females on board affected them
with the most poignant anguish; and every sea that broke inspired
them with terror for their safety.

'But, alas, their apprehensions were too soon realised! Within a
very few minutes of the time that Mr. Rogers gained the rock, an
universal shriek, which long vibrated in their ears, in which the
voice of female distress was lamentably distinguished, announced
the dreadful catastrophe. In a few moments all was hushed, except
the roaring of the winds and the dashing of the waves; the wreck
was buried in the deep, and not an atom of it was ever afterwards
seen.'

The most beautiful and affecting incident I know, associated with a
shipwreck, succeeds this dismal story for a winter night. The
Grosvenor, East Indiaman, homeward bound, goes ashore on the coast
of Caffraria. It is resolved that the officers, passengers, and
crew, in number one hundred and thirty-five souls, shall endeavour
to penetrate on foot, across trackless deserts, infested by wild
beasts and cruel savages, to the Dutch settlements at the Cape of
Good Hope. With this forlorn object before them, they finally
separate into two parties - never more to meet on earth.

There is a solitary child among the passengers - a little boy of
seven years old who has no relation there; and when the first party
is moving away he cries after some member of it who has been kind
to him. The crying of a child might be supposed to be a little
thing to men in such great extremity; but it touches them, and he
is immediately taken into that detachment.

From which time forth, this child is sublimely made a sacred
charge. He is pushed, on a little raft, across broad rivers by the
swimming sailors; they carry him by turns through the deep sand and
long grass (he patiently walking at all other times); they share
with him such putrid fish as they find to eat; they lie down and
wait for him when the rough carpenter, who becomes his especial
friend, lags behind. Beset by lions and tigers, by savages, by
thirst, by hunger, by death in a crowd of ghastly shapes, they
never - O Father of all mankind, thy name be blessed for it! -
forget this child. The captain stops exhausted, and his faithful
coxswain goes back and is seen to sit down by his side, and neither
of the two shall be any more beheld until the great last day; but,
as the rest go on for their lives, they take the child with them.
The carpenter dies of poisonous berries eaten in starvation; and
the steward, succeeding to the command of the party, succeeds to
the sacred guardianship of the child.

God knows all he does for the poor baby; how he cheerfully carries
him in his arms when he himself is weak and ill; how he feeds him
when he himself is griped with want; how he folds his ragged jacket
round him, lays his little worn face with a woman's tenderness upon
his sunburnt breast, soothes him in his sufferings, sings to him as
he limps along, unmindful of his own parched and bleeding feet.
Divided for a few days from the rest, they dig a grave in the sand
and bury their good friend the cooper - these two companions alone
in the wilderness - and then the time comes when they both are ill,
and beg their wretched partners in despair, reduced and few in
number now, to wait by them one day. They wait by them one day,
they wait by them two days. On the morning of the third, they move
very softly about, in making their preparations for the resumption
of their journey; for, the child is sleeping by the fire, and it is
agreed with one consent that he shall not be disturbed until the
last moment. The moment comes, the fire is dying - and the child
is dead.

His faithful friend, the steward, lingers but a little while behind
him. His grief is great, he staggers on for a few days, lies down
in the desert, and dies. But he shall be re-united in his immortal
spirit - who can doubt it! - with the child, when he and the poor
carpenter shall be raised up with the words, 'Inasmuch as ye have
done it unto the least of these, ye have done it unto Me.'

As I recall the dispersal and disappearance of nearly all the
participators in this once famous shipwreck (a mere handful being
recovered at last), and the legends that were long afterwards
revived from time to time among the English officers at the Cape,
of a white woman with an infant, said to have been seen weeping
outside a savage hut far in the interior, who was whisperingly
associated with the remembrance of the missing ladies saved from
the wrecked vessel, and who was often sought but never found,
thoughts of another kind of travel came into my mind.

Thoughts of a voyager unexpectedly summoned from home, who
travelled a vast distance, and could never return. Thoughts of
this unhappy wayfarer in the depths of his sorrow, in the
bitterness of his anguish, in the helplessness of his self-
reproach, in the desperation of his desire to set right what he had
left wrong, and do what he had left undone.

For, there were many, many things he had neglected. Little matters
while he was at home and surrounded by them, but things of mighty
moment when he was at an immeasurable distance. There were many
many blessings that he had inadequately felt, there were many
trivial injuries that he had not forgiven, there was love that he
had but poorly returned, there was friendship that he had too
lightly prized: there were a million kind words that he might have
spoken, a million kind looks that he might have given, uncountable
slight easy deeds in which he might have been most truly great and
good. O for a day (he would exclaim), for but one day to make
amends! But the sun never shone upon that happy day, and out of
his remote captivity he never came.

Why does this traveller's fate obscure, on New Year's Eve, the
other histories of travellers with which my mind was filled but
now, and cast a solemn shadow over me! Must I one day make his
journey? Even so. Who shall say, that I may not then be tortured
by such late regrets: that I may not then look from my exile on my
empty place and undone work? I stand upon a sea-shore, where the
waves are years. They break and fall, and I may little heed them;
but, with every wave the sea is rising, and I know that it will
float me on this traveller's voyage at last.

THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER

THE amount of money he annually diverts from wholesome and useful
purposes in the United Kingdom, would be a set-off against the
Window Tax. He is one of the most shameless frauds and impositions
of this time. In his idleness, his mendacity, and the immeasurable
harm he does to the deserving, - dirtying the stream of true
benevolence, and muddling the brains of foolish justices, with
inability to distinguish between the base coin of distress, and the
true currency we have always among us, - he is more worthy of
Norfolk Island than three-fourths of the worst characters who are
sent there. Under any rational system, he would have been sent
there long ago.

I, the writer of this paper, have been, for some time, a chosen
receiver of Begging Letters. For fourteen years, my house has been
made as regular a Receiving House for such communications as any
one of the great branch Post-Offices is for general correspondence.
I ought to know something of the Begging-Letter Writer. He has
besieged my door at all hours of the day and night; he has fought
my servant; he has lain in ambush for me, going out and coming in;
he has followed me out of town into the country; he has appeared at
provincial hotels, where I have been staying for only a few hours;
he has written to me from immense distances, when I have been out
of England. He has fallen sick; he has died and been buried; he
has come to life again, and again departed from this transitory
scene: he has been his own son, his own mother, his own baby, his
idiot brother, his uncle, his aunt, his aged grandfather. He has
wanted a greatcoat, to go to India in; a pound to set him up in
life for ever; a pair of boots to take him to the coast of China; a
hat to get him into a permanent situation under Government. He has
frequently been exactly seven-and-sixpence short of independence.
He has had such openings at Liverpool - posts of great trust and
confidence in merchants' houses, which nothing but seven-and-
sixpence was wanting to him to secure - that I wonder he is not
Mayor of that flourishing town at the present moment.

The natural phenomena of which he has been the victim, are of a
most astounding nature. He has had two children who have never
grown up; who have never had anything to cover them at night; who
have been continually driving him mad, by asking in vain for food;
who have never come out of fevers and measles (which, I suppose,
has accounted for his fuming his letters with tobacco smoke, as a
disinfectant); who have never changed in the least degree through
fourteen long revolving years. As to his wife, what that suffering
woman has undergone, nobody knows. She has always been in an
interesting situation through the same long period, and has never
been confined yet. His devotion to her has been unceasing. He has
never cared for himself; HE could have perished - he would rather,
in short - but was it not his Christian duty as a man, a husband,
and a father, - to write begging letters when he looked at her?
(He has usually remarked that he would call in the evening for an
answer to this question.)

He has been the sport of the strangest misfortunes. What his
brother has done to him would have broken anybody else's heart.
His brother went into business with him, and ran away with the
money; his brother got him to be security for an immense sum and
left him to pay it; his brother would have given him employment to
the tune of hundreds a-year, if he would have consented to write
letters on a Sunday; his brother enunciated principles incompatible
with his religious views, and he could not (in consequence) permit
his brother to provide for him. His landlord has never shown a
spark of human feeling. When he put in that execution I don't
know, but he has never taken it out. The broker's man has grown
grey in possession. They will have to bury him some day.

He has been attached to every conceivable pursuit. He has been in
the army, in the navy, in the church, in the law; connected with
the press, the fine arts, public institutions, every description
and grade of business. He has been brought up as a gentleman; he
has been at every college in Oxford and Cambridge; he can quote
Latin in his letters (but generally misspells some minor English
word); he can tell you what Shakespeare says about begging, better
than you know it. It is to be observed, that in the midst of his
afflictions he always reads the newspapers; and rounds off his
appeal with some allusion, that may be supposed to be in my way, to
the popular subject of the hour.

His life presents a series of inconsistencies. Sometimes he has
never written such a letter before. He blushes with shame. That
is the first time; that shall be the last. Don't answer it, and
let it be understood that, then, he will kill himself quietly.
Sometimes (and more frequently) he HAS written a few such letters.
Then he encloses the answers, with an intimation that they are of
inestimable value to him, and a request that they may be carefully
returned. He is fond of enclosing something - verses, letters,
pawnbrokers' duplicates, anything to necessitate an answer. He is
very severe upon 'the pampered minion of fortune,' who refused him
the half-sovereign referred to in the enclosure number two - but he
knows me better.

He writes in a variety of styles; sometimes in low spirits;
sometimes quite jocosely. When he is in low spirits he writes
down-hill and repeats words - these little indications being
expressive of the perturbation of his mind. When he is more
vivacious, he is frank with me; he is quite the agreeable rattle.
I know what human nature is, - who better? Well! He had a little
money once, and he ran through it - as many men have done before
him. He finds his old friends turn away from him now - many men
have done that before him too! Shall he tell me why he writes to
me? Because he has no kind of claim upon me. He puts it on that
ground plainly; and begs to ask for the loan (as I know human
nature) of two sovereigns, to be repaid next Tuesday six weeks,
before twelve at noon.

Sometimes, when he is sure that I have found him out, and that
there is no chance of money, he writes to inform me that I have got
rid of him at last. He has enlisted into the Company's service,
and is off directly - but he wants a cheese. He is informed by the
serjeant that it is essential to his prospects in the regiment that
he should take out a single Gloucester cheese, weighing from twelve
to fifteen pounds. Eight or nine shillings would buy it. He does
not ask for money, after what has passed; but if he calls at nine,
to-morrow morning may he hope to find a cheese? And is there
anything he can do to show his gratitude in Bengal?

Once he wrote me rather a special letter, proposing relief in kind.
He had got into a little trouble by leaving parcels of mud done up
in brown paper, at people's houses, on pretence of being a Railway-
Porter, in which character he received carriage money. This
sportive fancy he expiated in the House of Correction. Not long
after his release, and on a Sunday morning, he called with a letter
(having first dusted himself all over), in which he gave me to
understand that, being resolved to earn an honest livelihood, he
had been travelling about the country with a cart of crockery.
That he had been doing pretty well until the day before, when his
horse had dropped down dead near Chatham, in Kent. That this had
reduced him to the unpleasant necessity of getting into the shafts
himself, and drawing the cart of crockery to London - a somewhat
exhausting pull of thirty miles. That he did not venture to ask
again for money; but that if I would have the goodness TO LEAVE HIM
OUT A DONKEY, he would call for the animal before breakfast!

At another time my friend (I am describing actual experiences)
introduced himself as a literary gentleman in the last extremity of
distress. He had had a play accepted at a certain Theatre - which
was really open; its representation was delayed by the
indisposition of a leading actor - who was really ill; and he and
his were in a state of absolute starvation. If he made his
necessities known to the Manager of the Theatre, he put it to me to
say what kind of treatment he might expect? Well! we got over that
difficulty to our mutual satisfaction. A little while afterwards
he was in some other strait. I think Mrs. Southcote, his wife, was
in extremity - and we adjusted that point too. A little while
afterwards he had taken a new house, and was going headlong to ruin
for want of a water-butt. I had my misgivings about the water-
butt, and did not reply to that epistle. But a little while
afterwards, I had reason to feel penitent for my neglect. He wrote
me a few broken-hearted lines, informing me that the dear partner
of his sorrows died in his arms last night at nine o'clock!

I despatched a trusty messenger to comfort the bereaved mourner and
his poor children; but the messenger went so soon, that the play
was not ready to be played out; my friend was not at home, and his
wife was in a most delightful state of health. He was taken up by
the Mendicity Society (informally it afterwards appeared), and I
presented myself at a London Police-Office with my testimony
against him. The Magistrate was wonderfully struck by his
educational acquirements, deeply impressed by the excellence of his
letters, exceedingly sorry to see a man of his attainments there,
complimented him highly on his powers of composition, and was quite
charmed to have the agreeable duty of discharging him. A
collection was made for the 'poor fellow,' as he was called in the
reports, and I left the court with a comfortable sense of being
universally regarded as a sort of monster. Next day comes to me a
friend of mine, the governor of a large prison. 'Why did you ever
go to the Police-Office against that man,' says he, 'without coming
to me first? I know all about him and his frauds. He lodged in
the house of one of my warders, at the very time when he first
wrote to you; and then he was eating spring-lamb at eighteen-pence
a pound, and early asparagus at I don't know how much a bundle!'
On that very same day, and in that very same hour, my injured
gentleman wrote a solemn address to me, demanding to know what
compensation I proposed to make him for his having passed the night
in a 'loathsome dungeon.'  And next morning an Irish gentleman, a
member of the same fraternity, who had read the case, and was very
well persuaded I should be chary of going to that Police-Office
again, positively refused to leave my door for less than a
sovereign, and, resolved to besiege me into compliance, literally
'sat down' before it for ten mortal hours. The garrison being well
provisioned, I remained within the walls; and he raised the siege
at midnight with a prodigious alarum on the bell.

The Begging-Letter Writer often has an extensive circle of
acquaintance. Whole pages of the 'Court Guide' are ready to be
references for him. Noblemen and gentlemen write to say there
never was such a man for probity and virtue. They have known him
time out of mind, and there is nothing they wouldn't do for him.
Somehow, they don't give him that one pound ten he stands in need
of; but perhaps it is not enough - they want to do more, and his
modesty will not allow it. It is to be remarked of his trade that
it is a very fascinating one. He never leaves it; and those who
are near to him become smitten with a love of it, too, and sooner
or later set up for themselves. He employs a messenger - man,
woman, or child. That messenger is certain ultimately to become an
independent Begging-Letter Writer. His sons and daughters succeed
to his calling, and write begging-letters when he is no more. He
throws off the infection of begging-letter writing, like the
contagion of disease. What Sydney Smith so happily called 'the
dangerous luxury of dishonesty' is more tempting, and more
catching, it would seem, in this instance than in any other.

He always belongs to a Corresponding-Society of Begging-Letter
Writers. Any one who will, may ascertain this fact. Give money
to-day in recognition of a begging-letter, - no matter how unlike a
common begging-letter, - and for the next fortnight you will have a
rush of such communications. Steadily refuse to give; and the
begging-letters become Angels' visits, until the Society is from
some cause or other in a dull way of business, and may as well try
you as anybody else. It is of little use inquiring into the
Begging-Letter Writer's circumstances. He may be sometimes
accidentally found out, as in the case already mentioned (though
that was not the first inquiry made); but apparent misery is always
a part of his trade, and real misery very often is, in the
intervals of spring-lamb and early asparagus. It is naturally an
incident of his dissipated and dishonest life.

That the calling is a successful one, and that large sums of money
are gained by it, must be evident to anybody who reads the Police
Reports of such cases. But, prosecutions are of rare occurrence,
relatively to the extent to which the trade is carried on. The
cause of this is to be found (as no one knows better than the
Begging-Letter Writer, for it is a part of his speculation) in the
aversion people feel to exhibit themselves as having been imposed
upon, or as having weakly gratified their consciences with a lazy,
flimsy substitute for the noblest of all virtues. There is a man
at large, at the moment when this paper is preparing for the press
(on the 29th of April, 1850), and never once taken up yet, who,
within these twelvemonths, has been probably the most audacious and
the most successful swindler that even this trade has ever known.
There has been something singularly base in this fellow's
proceedings; it has been his business to write to all sorts and
conditions of people, in the names of persons of high reputation
and unblemished honour, professing to be in distress - the general
admiration and respect for whom has ensured a ready and generous
reply.

Now, in the hope that the results of the real experience of a real
person may do something more to induce reflection on this subject
than any abstract treatise - and with a personal knowledge of the
extent to which the Begging-Letter Trade has been carried on for
some time, and has been for some time constantly increasing - the
writer of this paper entreats the attention of his readers to a few
concluding words. His experience is a type of the experience of
many; some on a smaller, some on an infinitely larger scale. All
may judge of the soundness or unsoundness of his conclusions from
it.

Long doubtful of the efficacy of such assistance in any case
whatever, and able to recall but one, within his whole individual
knowledge, in which he had the least after-reason to suppose that
any good was done by it, he was led, last autumn, into some serious
considerations. The begging-letters flying about by every post,
made it perfectly manifest that a set of lazy vagabonds were
interposed between the general desire to do something to relieve
the sickness and misery under which the poor were suffering, and
the suffering poor themselves. That many who sought to do some
little to repair the social wrongs, inflicted in the way of
preventible sickness and death upon the poor, were strengthening
those wrongs, however innocently, by wasting money on pestilent
knaves cumbering society. That imagination, - soberly following
one of these knaves into his life of punishment in jail, and
comparing it with the life of one of these poor in a cholera-
stricken alley, or one of the children of one of these poor,
soothed in its dying hour by the late lamented Mr. Drouet, -
contemplated a grim farce, impossible to be presented very much
longer before God or man. That the crowning miracle of all the
miracles summed up in the New Testament, after the miracle of the
blind seeing, and the lame walking, and the restoration of the dead
to life, was the miracle that the poor had the Gospel preached to
them. That while the poor were unnaturally and unnecessarily cut
off by the thousand, in the prematurity of their age, or in the
rottenness of their youth - for of flower or blossom such youth has
none - the Gospel was NOT preached to them, saving in hollow and
unmeaning voices. That of all wrongs, this was the first mighty
wrong the Pestilence warned us to set right. And that no Post-
Office Order to any amount, given to a Begging-Letter Writer for
the quieting of an uneasy breast, would be presentable on the Last
Great Day as anything towards it.

The poor never write these letters. Nothing could be more unlike
their habits. The writers are public robbers; and we who support
them are parties to their depredations. They trade upon every
circumstance within their knowledge that affects us, public or
private, joyful or sorrowful; they pervert the lessons of our
lives; they change what ought to be our strength and virtue into
weakness, and encouragement of vice. There is a plain remedy, and
it is in our own hands. We must resolve, at any sacrifice of
feeling, to be deaf to such appeals, and crush the trade.

There are degrees in murder. Life must be held sacred among us in
more ways than one - sacred, not merely from the murderous weapon,
or the subtle poison, or the cruel blow, but sacred from
preventible diseases, distortions, and pains. That is the first
great end we have to set against this miserable imposition.
Physical life respected, moral life comes next. What will not
content a Begging-Letter Writer for a week, would educate a score
of children for a year. Let us give all we can; let us give more
than ever. Let us do all we can; let us do more than ever. But
let us give, and do, with a high purpose; not to endow the scum of
the earth, to its own greater corruption, with the offals of our
duty.

A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR

THERE was once a child, and he strolled about a good deal, and
thought of a number of things. He had a sister, who was a child
too, and his constant companion. These two used to wonder all day
long. They wondered at the beauty of the flowers; they wondered at
the height and blueness of the sky; they wondered at the depth of
the bright water; they wondered at the goodness and the power of
GOD who made the lovely world.

They used to say to one another, sometimes, Supposing all the
children upon earth were to die, would the flowers, and the water,
and the sky be sorry? They believed they would be sorry. For,
said they, the buds are the children of the flowers, and the little
playful streams that gambol down the hill-sides are the children of
the water; and the smallest bright specks playing at hide and seek
in the sky all night, must surely be the children of the stars; and
they would all be grieved to see their playmates, the children of
men, no more.

There was one clear shining star that used to come out in the sky
before the rest, near the church spire, above the graves. It was
larger and more beautiful, they thought, than all the others, and
every night they watched for it, standing hand in hand at a window.
Whoever saw it first cried out, 'I see the star!'  And often they
cried out both together, knowing so well when it would rise, and
where. So they grew to be such friends with it, that, before lying
down in their beds, they always looked out once again, to bid it
good night; and when they were turning round to sleep, they used to
say, 'God bless the star!'

But while she was still very young, oh, very, very young, the
sister drooped, and came to be so weak that she could no longer
stand in the window at night; and then the child looked sadly out
by himself, and when he saw the star, turned round and said to the
patient pale face on the bed, 'I see the star!' and then a smile
would come upon the face, and a little weak voice used to say, 'God
bless my brother and the star!'

And so the time came all too soon! when the child looked out alone,
and when there was no face on the bed; and when there was a little
grave among the graves, not there before; and when the star made
long rays down towards him, as he saw it through his tears.

Now, these rays were so bright, and they seemed to make such a
shining way from earth to Heaven, that when the child went to his
solitary bed, he dreamed about the star; and dreamed that, lying
where he was, he saw a train of people taken up that sparkling road
by angels. And the star, opening, showed him a great world of
light, where many more such angels waited to receive them.

All these angels, who were waiting, turned their beaming eyes upon
the people who were carried up into the star; and some came out
from the long rows in which they stood, and fell upon the people's
necks, and kissed them tenderly, and went away with them down
avenues of light, and were so happy in their company, that lying in
his bed he wept for joy.

But, there were many angels who did not go with them, and among
them one he knew. The patient face that once had lain upon the bed
was glorified and radiant, but his heart found out his sister among
all the host.

His sister's angel lingered near the entrance of the star, and said
to the leader among those who had brought the people thither:

'Is my brother come?'

And he said 'No.'

She was turning hopefully away, when the child stretched out his
arms, and cried, 'O, sister, I am here! Take me!' and then she
turned her beaming eyes upon him, and it was night; and the star
was shining into the room, making long rays down towards him as he
saw it through his tears.

From that hour forth, the child looked out upon the star as on the
home he was to go to, when his time should come; and he thought
that he did not belong to the earth alone, but to the star too,
because of his sister's angel gone before.

There was a baby born to be a brother to the child; and while he
was so little that he never yet had spoken word, he stretched his
tiny form out on his bed, and died.

Again the child dreamed of the open star, and of the company of
angels, and the train of people, and the rows of angels with their
beaming eyes all turned upon those people's faces.

Said his sister's angel to the leader:

'Is my brother come?'

And he said, 'Not that one, but another.'

As the child beheld his brother's angel in her arms, he cried, 'O,
sister, I am here! Take me!'  And she turned and smiled upon him,
and the star was shining.

He grew to be a young man, and was busy at his books when an old
servant came to him and said:

'Thy mother is no more. I bring her blessing on her darling son!'

Again at night he saw the star, and all that former company. Said
his sister's angel to the leader.

'Is my brother come?'

And he said, 'Thy mother!'

A mighty cry of joy went forth through all the star, because the
mother was re-united to her two children. And he stretched out his
arms and cried, 'O, mother, sister, and brother, I am here! Take
me!'  And they answered him, 'Not yet,' and the star was shining.

He grew to be a man, whose hair was turning grey, and he was
sitting in his chair by the fireside, heavy with grief, and with
his face bedewed with tears, when the star opened once again.

Said his sister's angel to the leader: 'Is my brother come?'

And he said, 'Nay, but his maiden daughter.'

And the man who had been the child saw his daughter, newly lost to
him, a celestial creature among those three, and he said, 'My
daughter's head is on my sister's bosom, and her arm is around my
mother's neck, and at her feet there is the baby of old time, and I
can bear the parting from her, GOD be praised!'

And the star was shining.

Thus the child came to be an old man, and his once smooth face was
wrinkled, and his steps were slow and feeble, and his back was
bent. And one night as he lay upon his bed, his children standing
round, he cried, as he had cried so long ago:

'I see the star!'

They whispered one another, 'He is dying.'

And he said, 'I am. My age is falling from me like a garment, and
I move towards the star as a child. And O, my Father, now I thank
thee that it has so often opened, to receive those dear ones who
await me!'

And the star was shining; and it shines upon his grave.

OUR ENGLISH WATERING-PLACE

IN the Autumn-time of the year, when the great metropolis is so
much hotter, so much noisier, so much more dusty or so much more
water-carted, so much more crowded, so much more disturbing and
distracting in all respects, than it usually is, a quiet sea-beach
becomes indeed a blessed spot. Half awake and half asleep, this
idle morning in our sunny window on the edge of a chalk-cliff in
the old-fashioned watering-place to which we are a faithful
resorter, we feel a lazy inclination to sketch its picture.

The place seems to respond. Sky, sea, beach, and village, lie as
still before us as if they were sitting for the picture. It is
dead low-water. A ripple plays among the ripening corn upon the
cliff, as if it were faintly trying from recollection to imitate
the sea; and the world of butterflies hovering over the crop of
radish-seed are as restless in their little way as the gulls are in
their larger manner when the wind blows. But the ocean lies
winking in the sunlight like a drowsy lion - its glassy waters
scarcely curve upon the shore - the fishing-boats in the tiny
harbour are all stranded in the mud - our two colliers (our
watering-place has a maritime trade employing that amount of
shipping) have not an inch of water within a quarter of a mile of
them, and turn, exhausted, on their sides, like faint fish of an
antediluvian species. Rusty cables and chains, ropes and rings,
undermost parts of posts and piles and confused timber-defences
against the waves, lie strewn about, in a brown litter of tangled
sea-weed and fallen cliff which looks as if a family of giants had
been making tea here for ages, and had observed an untidy custom of
throwing their tea-leaves on the shore.

In truth, our watering-place itself has been left somewhat high and
dry by the tide of years. Concerned as we are for its honour, we
must reluctantly admit that the time when this pretty little
semicircular sweep of houses, tapering off at the end of the wooden
pier into a point in the sea, was a gay place, and when the
lighthouse overlooking it shone at daybreak on company dispersing
from public balls, is but dimly traditional now. There is a bleak
chamber in our watering-place which is yet called the Assembly
'Rooms,' and understood to be available on hire for balls or
concerts; and, some few seasons since, an ancient little gentleman
came down and stayed at the hotel, who said that he had danced
there, in bygone ages, with the Honourable Miss Peepy, well known
to have been the Beauty of her day and the cruel occasion of
innumerable duels. But he was so old and shrivelled, and so very
rheumatic in the legs, that it demanded more imagination than our
watering-place can usually muster, to believe him; therefore,
except the Master of the 'Rooms' (who to this hour wears knee-
breeches, and who confirmed the statement with tears in his eyes),
nobody did believe in the little lame old gentleman, or even in the
Honourable Miss Peepy, long deceased.

As to subscription balls in the Assembly Rooms of our watering-
place now, red-hot cannon balls are less improbable. Sometimes, a
misguided wanderer of a Ventriloquist, or an Infant Phenomenon, or
a juggler, or somebody with an Orrery that is several stars behind
the time, takes the place for a night, and issues bills with the
name of his last town lined out, and the name of ours ignominiously
written in, but you may be sure this never happens twice to the
same unfortunate person. On such occasions the discoloured old
Billiard Table that is seldom played at (unless the ghost of the
Honourable Miss Peepy plays at pool with other ghosts) is pushed
into a corner, and benches are solemnly constituted into front
seats, back seats, and reserved seats - which are much the same
after you have paid - and a few dull candles are lighted - wind
permitting - and the performer and the scanty audience play out a
short match which shall make the other most low-spirited - which is
usually a drawn game. After that, the performer instantly departs
with maledictory expressions, and is never heard of more.

But the most wonderful feature of our Assembly Rooms, is, that an
annual sale of 'Fancy and other China,' is announced here with
mysterious constancy and perseverance. Where the china comes from,
where it goes to, why it is annually put up to auction when nobody
ever thinks of bidding for it, how it comes to pass that it is
always the same china, whether it would not have been cheaper, with
the sea at hand, to have thrown it away, say in eighteen hundred
and thirty, are standing enigmas. Every year the bills come out,
every year the Master of the Rooms gets into a little pulpit on a
table, and offers it for sale, every year nobody buys it, every
year it is put away somewhere till next year, when it appears again
as if the whole thing were a new idea. We have a faint remembrance
of an unearthly collection of clocks, purporting to be the work of
Parisian and Genevese artists - chiefly bilious-faced clocks,
supported on sickly white crutches, with their pendulums dangling
like lame legs - to which a similar course of events occurred for
several years, until they seemed to lapse away, of mere imbecility.

Attached to our Assembly Rooms is a library. There is a wheel of
fortune in it, but it is rusty and dusty, and never turns. A large
doll, with moveable eyes, was put up to be raffled for, by five-
and-twenty members at two shillings, seven years ago this autumn,
and the list is not full yet. We are rather sanguine, now, that
the raffle will come off next year. We think so, because we only
want nine members, and should only want eight, but for number two
having grown up since her name was entered, and withdrawn it when
she was married. Down the street, there is a toy-ship of
considerable burden, in the same condition. Two of the boys who
were entered for that raffle have gone to India in real ships,
since; and one was shot, and died in the arms of his sister's
lover, by whom he sent his last words home.

This is the library for the Minerva Press. If you want that kind
of reading, come to our watering-place. The leaves of the
romances, reduced to a condition very like curl-paper, are thickly
studded with notes in pencil: sometimes complimentary, sometimes
jocose. Some of these commentators, like commentators in a more
extensive way, quarrel with one another. One young gentleman who
sarcastically writes 'O!!!' after every sentimental passage, is
pursued through his literary career by another, who writes
'Insulting Beast!'  Miss Julia Mills has read the whole collection
of these books. She has left marginal notes on the pages, as 'Is
not this truly touching? J. M.'  'How thrilling! J. M.'
'Entranced here by the Magician's potent spell. J. M.'  She has
also italicised her favourite traits in the description of the
hero, as 'his hair, which was DARK and WAVY, clustered in RICH
PROFUSION around a MARBLE BROW, whose lofty paleness bespoke the
intellect within.'  It reminds her of another hero. She adds, 'How
like B. L. Can this be mere coincidence? J. M.'

You would hardly guess which is the main street of our watering-
place, but you may know it by its being always stopped up with
donkey-chaises. Whenever you come here, and see harnessed donkeys
eating clover out of barrows drawn completely across a narrow
thoroughfare, you may be quite sure you are in our High Street.
Our Police you may know by his uniform, likewise by his never on
any account interfering with anybody - especially the tramps and
vagabonds. In our fancy shops we have a capital collection of
damaged goods, among which the flies of countless summers 'have
been roaming.'  We are great in obsolete seals, and in faded pin-
cushions, and in rickety camp-stools, and in exploded cutlery, and
in miniature vessels, and in stunted little telescopes, and in
objects made of shells that pretend not to be shells. Diminutive
spades, barrows, and baskets, are our principal articles of
commerce; but even they don't look quite new somehow. They always
seem to have been offered and refused somewhere else, before they
came down to our watering-place.

Yet, it must not be supposed that our watering-place is an empty
place, deserted by all visitors except a few staunch persons of
approved fidelity. On the contrary, the chances are that if you
came down here in August or September, you wouldn't find a house to
lay your head in. As to finding either house or lodging of which
you could reduce the terms, you could scarcely engage in a more
hopeless pursuit. For all this, you are to observe that every
season is the worst season ever known, and that the householding
population of our watering-place are ruined regularly every autumn.
They are like the farmers, in regard that it is surprising how much
ruin they will bear. We have an excellent hotel - capital baths,
warm, cold, and shower - first-rate bathing-machines - and as good
butchers, bakers, and grocers, as heart could desire. They all do
business, it is to be presumed, from motives of philanthropy - but
it is quite certain that they are all being ruined. Their interest
in strangers, and their politeness under ruin, bespeak their
amiable nature. You would say so, if you only saw the baker
helping a new comer to find suitable apartments.

So far from being at a discount as to company, we are in fact what
would be popularly called rather a nobby place. Some tip-top
'Nobbs' come down occasionally - even Dukes and Duchesses. We have
known such carriages to blaze among the donkey-chaises, as made
beholders wink. Attendant on these equipages come resplendent
creatures in plush and powder, who are sure to be stricken
disgusted with the indifferent accommodation of our watering-place,
and who, of an evening (particularly when it rains), may be seen
very much out of drawing, in rooms far too small for their fine
figures, looking discontentedly out of little back windows into
bye-streets. The lords and ladies get on well enough and quite
good-humouredly: but if you want to see the gorgeous phenomena who
wait upon them at a perfect non-plus, you should come and look at
the resplendent creatures with little back parlours for servants'
halls, and turn-up bedsteads to sleep in, at our watering-place.
You have no idea how they take it to heart.

We have a pier - a queer old wooden pier, fortunately without the
slightest pretensions to architecture, and very picturesque in
consequence. Boats are hauled up upon it, ropes are coiled all
over it; lobster-pots, nets, masts, oars, spars, sails, ballast,
and rickety capstans, make a perfect labyrinth of it. For ever
hovering about this pier, with their hands in their pockets, or
leaning over the rough bulwark it opposes to the sea, gazing
through telescopes which they carry about in the same profound
receptacles, are the Boatmen of our watering-place. Looking at
them, you would say that surely these must be the laziest boatmen
in the world. They lounge about, in obstinate and inflexible
pantaloons that are apparently made of wood, the whole season
through. Whether talking together about the shipping in the
Channel, or gruffly unbending over mugs of beer at the public-
house, you would consider them the slowest of men. The chances are
a thousand to one that you might stay here for ten seasons, and
never see a boatman in a hurry. A certain expression about his
loose hands, when they are not in his pockets, as if he were
carrying a considerable lump of iron in each, without any
inconvenience, suggests strength, but he never seems to use it. He
has the appearance of perpetually strolling - running is too
inappropriate a word to be thought of - to seed. The only subject
on which he seems to feel any approach to enthusiasm, is pitch. He
pitches everything he can lay hold of, - the pier, the palings, his
boat, his house, - when there is nothing else left he turns to and
even pitches his hat, or his rough-weather clothing. Do not judge
him by deceitful appearances. These are among the bravest and most
skilful mariners that exist. Let a gale arise and swell into a
storm, let a sea run that might appal the stoutest heart that ever
beat, let the Light-boat on these dangerous sands throw up a rocket
in the night, or let them hear through the angry roar the signal-
guns of a ship in distress, and these men spring up into activity
so dauntless, so valiant, and heroic, that the world cannot surpass
it. Cavillers may object that they chiefly live upon the salvage
of valuable cargoes. So they do, and God knows it is no great
living that they get out of the deadly risks they run. But put
that hope of gain aside. Let these rough fellows be asked, in any
storm, who volunteers for the life-boat to save some perishing
souls, as poor and empty-handed as themselves, whose lives the
perfection of human reason does not rate at the value of a farthing
each; and that boat will be manned, as surely and as cheerfully, as
if a thousand pounds were told down on the weather-beaten pier.
For this, and for the recollection of their comrades whom we have
known, whom the raging sea has engulfed before their children's
eyes in such brave efforts, whom the secret sand has buried, we
hold the boatmen of our watering-place in our love and honour, and
are tender of the fame they well deserve.

So many children are brought down to our watering-place that, when
they are not out of doors, as they usually are in fine weather, it
is wonderful where they are put: the whole village seeming much too
small to hold them under cover. In the afternoons, you see no end
of salt and sandy little boots drying on upper window-sills. At
bathing-time in the morning, the little bay re-echoes with every
shrill variety of shriek and splash - after which, if the weather
be at all fresh, the sands teem with small blue mottled legs. The
sands are the children's great resort. They cluster there, like
ants: so busy burying their particular friends, and making castles
with infinite labour which the next tide overthrows, that it is
curious to consider how their play, to the music of the sea,
foreshadows the realities of their after lives.

It is curious, too, to observe a natural ease of approach that
there seems to be between the children and the boatmen. They
mutually make acquaintance, and take individual likings, without
any help. You will come upon one of those slow heavy fellows
sitting down patiently mending a little ship for a mite of a boy,
whom he could crush to death by throwing his lightest pair of
trousers on him. You will be sensible of the oddest contrast
between the smooth little creature, and the rough man who seems to
be carved out of hard-grained wood - between the delicate hand
expectantly held out, and the immense thumb and finger that can
hardly feel the rigging of thread they mend - between the small
voice and the gruff growl - and yet there is a natural propriety in
the companionship: always to be noted in confidence between a child
and a person who has any merit of reality and genuineness: which is
admirably pleasant.

We have a preventive station at our watering-place, and much the
same thing may be observed - in a lesser degree, because of their
official character - of the coast blockade; a steady, trusty, well-
conditioned, well-conducted set of men, with no misgiving about
looking you full in the face, and with a quiet thorough-going way
of passing along to their duty at night, carrying huge sou'-wester
clothing in reserve, that is fraught with all good prepossession.
They are handy fellows - neat about their houses - industrious at
gardening - would get on with their wives, one thinks, in a desert
island - and people it, too, soon.

As to the naval officer of the station, with his hearty fresh face,
and his blue eye that has pierced all kinds of weather, it warms
our hearts when he comes into church on a Sunday, with that bright
mixture of blue coat, buff waistcoat, black neck-kerchief, and gold
epaulette, that is associated in the minds of all Englishmen with
brave, unpretending, cordial, national service. We like to look at
him in his Sunday state; and if we were First Lord (really
possessing the indispensable qualification for the office of
knowing nothing whatever about the sea), we would give him a ship
to-morrow.

We have a church, by-the-by, of course - a hideous temple of flint,
like a great petrified haystack. Our chief clerical dignitary,
who, to his honour, has done much for education both in time and
money, and has established excellent schools, is a sound, shrewd,
healthy gentleman, who has got into little occasional difficulties
with the neighbouring farmers, but has had a pestilent trick of
being right. Under a new regulation, he has yielded the church of
our watering-place to another clergyman. Upon the whole we get on
in church well. We are a little bilious sometimes, about these
days of fraternisation, and about nations arriving at a new and
more unprejudiced knowledge of each other (which our Christianity
don't quite approve), but it soon goes off, and then we get on very
well.

There are two dissenting chapels, besides, in our small watering-
place; being in about the proportion of a hundred and twenty guns
to a yacht. But the dissension that has torn us lately, has not
been a religious one. It has arisen on the novel question of Gas.
Our watering-place has been convulsed by the agitation, Gas or No
Gas. It was never reasoned why No Gas, but there was a great No
Gas party. Broadsides were printed and stuck about - a startling
circumstance in our watering-place. The No Gas party rested
content with chalking 'No Gas!' and 'Down with Gas!' and other such
angry war-whoops, on the few back gates and scraps of wall which
the limits of our watering-place afford; but the Gas party printed
and posted bills, wherein they took the high ground of proclaiming
against the No Gas party, that it was said Let there be light and
there was light; and that not to have light (that is gas-light) in
our watering-place, was to contravene the great decree. Whether by
these thunderbolts or not, the No Gas party were defeated; and in
this present season we have had our handful of shops illuminated
for the first time. Such of the No Gas party, however, as have got
shops, remain in opposition and burn tallow - exhibiting in their
windows the very picture of the sulkiness that punishes itself, and
a new illustration of the old adage about cutting off your nose to
be revenged on your face, in cutting off their gas to be revenged
on their business.

Other population than we have indicated, our watering-place has
none. There are a few old used-up boatmen who creep about in the
sunlight with the help of sticks, and there is a poor imbecile
shoemaker who wanders his lonely life away among the rocks, as if
he were looking for his reason - which he will never find.
Sojourners in neighbouring watering-places come occasionally in
flys to stare at us, and drive away again as if they thought us
very dull; Italian boys come, Punch comes, the Fantoccini come, the
Tumblers come, the Ethiopians come; Glee-singers come at night, and
hum and vibrate (not always melodiously) under our windows. But
they all go soon, and leave us to ourselves again. We once had a
travelling Circus and Wombwell's Menagerie at the same time. They
both know better than ever to try it again; and the Menagerie had
nearly razed us from the face of the earth in getting the elephant
away - his caravan was so large, and the watering-place so small.
We have a fine sea, wholesome for all people; profitable for the
body, profitable for the mind. The poet's words are sometimes on
its awful lips:

And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand.
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

Yet it is not always so, for the speech of the sea is various, and
wants not abundant resource of cheerfulness, hope, and lusty
encouragement. And since I have been idling at the window here,
the tide has risen. The boats are dancing on the bubbling water;
the colliers are afloat again; the white-bordered waves rush in;
the children

Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him
When he comes back;

the radiant sails are gliding past the shore, and shining on the
far horizon; all the sea is sparkling, heaving, swelling up with
life and beauty, this bright morning.

OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE

HAVING earned, by many years of fidelity, the right to be sometimes
inconstant to our English watering-place, we have dallied for two
or three seasons with a French watering-place: once solely known to
us as a town with a very long street, beginning with an abattoir
and ending with a steam-boat, which it seemed our fate to behold
only at daybreak on winter mornings, when (in the days before
continental railroads), just sufficiently awake to know that we
were most uncomfortably asleep, it was our destiny always to
clatter through it, in the coupe of the diligence from Paris, with
a sea of mud behind us, and a sea of tumbling waves before. In
relation to which latter monster, our mind's eye now recalls a
worthy Frenchman in a seal-skin cap with a braided hood over it,
once our travelling companion in the coupe aforesaid, who, waking
up with a pale and crumpled visage, and looking ruefully out at the
grim row of breakers enjoying themselves fanatically on an
instrument of torture called 'the Bar,' inquired of us whether we
were ever sick at sea? Both to prepare his mind for the abject
creature we were presently to become, and also to afford him
consolation, we replied, 'Sir, your servant is always sick when it
is possible to be so.'  He returned, altogether uncheered by the
bright example, 'Ah, Heaven, but I am always sick, even when it is
IMpossible to be so.'

The means of communication between the French capital and our
French watering-place are wholly changed since those days; but, the
Channel remains unbridged as yet, and the old floundering and
knocking about go on there. It must be confessed that saving in
reasonable (and therefore rare) sea-weather, the act of arrival at
our French watering-place from England is difficult to be achieved
with dignity. Several little circumstances combine to render the
visitor an object of humiliation. In the first place, the steamer
no sooner touches the port, than all the passengers fall into
captivity: being boarded by an overpowering force of Custom-house
officers, and marched into a gloomy dungeon. In the second place,
the road to this dungeon is fenced off with ropes breast-high, and
outside those ropes all the English in the place who have lately
been sea-sick and are now well, assemble in their best clothes to
enjoy the degradation of their dilapidated fellow-creatures. 'Oh,
my gracious! how ill this one has been!'  'Here's a damp one coming
next!'  'HERE'S a pale one!'  'Oh! Ain't he green in the face,
this next one!'  Even we ourself (not deficient in natural dignity)
have a lively remembrance of staggering up this detested lane one
September day in a gale of wind, when we were received like an
irresistible comic actor, with a burst of laughter and applause,
occasioned by the extreme imbecility of our legs.

We were coming to the third place. In the third place, the
captives, being shut up in the gloomy dungeon, are strained, two or
three at a time, into an inner cell, to be examined as to
passports; and across the doorway of communication, stands a
military creature making a bar of his arm. Two ideas are generally
present to the British mind during these ceremonies; first, that it
is necessary to make for the cell with violent struggles, as if it
were a life-boat and the dungeon a ship going down; secondly, that
the military creature's arm is a national affront, which the
government at home ought instantly to 'take up.'  The British mind
and body becoming heated by these fantasies, delirious answers are
made to inquiries, and extravagant actions performed. Thus,
Johnson persists in giving Johnson as his baptismal name, and
substituting for his ancestral designation the national 'Dam!'
Neither can he by any means be brought to recognise the distinction
between a portmanteau-key and a passport, but will obstinately
persevere in tendering the one when asked for the other. This
brings him to the fourth place, in a state of mere idiotcy; and
when he is, in the fourth place, cast out at a little door into a
howling wilderness of touters, he becomes a lunatic with wild eyes
and floating hair until rescued and soothed. If friendless and
unrescued, he is generally put into a railway omnibus and taken to
Paris.

But, our French watering-place, when it is once got into, is a very
enjoyable place. It has a varied and beautiful country around it,
and many characteristic and agreeable things within it. To be
sure, it might have fewer bad smells and less decaying refuse, and
it might be better drained, and much cleaner in many parts, and
therefore infinitely more healthy. Still, it is a bright, airy,
pleasant, cheerful town; and if you were to walk down either of its
three well-paved main streets, towards five o'clock in the
afternoon, when delicate odours of cookery fill the air, and its
hotel windows (it is full of hotels) give glimpses of long tables
set out for dinner, and made to look sumptuous by the aid of
napkins folded fan-wise, you would rightly judge it to be an
uncommonly good town to eat and drink in.

We have an old walled town, rich in cool public wells of water, on
the top of a hill within and above the present business-town; and
if it were some hundreds of miles further from England, instead of
being, on a clear day, within sight of the grass growing in the
crevices of the chalk-cliffs of Dover, you would long ago have been
bored to death about that town. It is more picturesque and quaint
than half the innocent places which tourists, following their
leader like sheep, have made impostors of. To say nothing of its
houses with grave courtyards, its queer by-corners, and its many-
windowed streets white and quiet in the sunlight, there is an
ancient belfry in it that would have been in all the Annuals and
Albums, going and gone, these hundred years if it had but been more
expensive to get at. Happily it has escaped so well, being only in
our French watering-place, that you may like it of your own accord
in a natural manner, without being required to go into convulsions
about it. We regard it as one of the later blessings of our life,
that BILKINS, the only authority on Taste, never took any notice
that we can find out, of our French watering-place. Bilkins never
wrote about it, never pointed out anything to be seen in it, never
measured anything in it, always left it alone. For which relief,
Heaven bless the town and the memory of the immortal Bilkins
likewise!

There is a charming walk, arched and shaded by trees, on the old
walls that form the four sides of this High Town, whence you get
glimpses of the streets below, and changing views of the other town
and of the river, and of the hills and of the sea. It is made more
agreeable and peculiar by some of the solemn houses that are rooted
in the deep streets below, bursting into a fresher existence a-top,
and having doors and windows, and even gardens, on these ramparts.
A child going in at the courtyard gate of one of these houses,
climbing up the many stairs, and coming out at the fourth-floor
window, might conceive himself another Jack, alighting on enchanted
ground from another bean-stalk. It is a place wonderfully populous
in children; English children, with governesses reading novels as
they walk down the shady lanes of trees, or nursemaids
interchanging gossip on the seats; French children with their
smiling bonnes in snow-white caps, and themselves - if little boys
- in straw head-gear like bee-hives, work-baskets and church
hassocks. Three years ago, there were three weazen old men, one
bearing a frayed red ribbon in his threadbare button-hole, always
to be found walking together among these children, before dinner-
time. If they walked for an appetite, they doubtless lived en
pension - were contracted for - otherwise their poverty would have
made it a rash action. They were stooping, blear-eyed, dull old
men, slip-shod and shabby, in long-skirted short-waisted coats and
meagre trousers, and yet with a ghost of gentility hovering in
their company. They spoke little to each other, and looked as if
they might have been politically discontented if they had had
vitality enough. Once, we overheard red-ribbon feebly complain to
the other two that somebody, or something, was 'a Robber;' and then
they all three set their mouths so that they would have ground
their teeth if they had had any. The ensuing winter gathered red-
ribbon unto the great company of faded ribbons, and next year the
remaining two were there - getting themselves entangled with hoops
and dolls - familiar mysteries to the children - probably in the
eyes of most of them, harmless creatures who had never been like
children, and whom children could never be like. Another winter
came, and another old man went, and so, this present year, the last
of the triumvirate, left off walking - it was no good, now - and
sat by himself on a little solitary bench, with the hoops and the
dolls as lively as ever all about him.

In the Place d'Armes of this town, a little decayed market is held,
which seems to slip through the old gateway, like water, and go
rippling down the hill, to mingle with the murmuring market in the
lower town, and get lost in its movement and bustle. It is very
agreeable on an idle summer morning to pursue this market-stream
from the hill-top. It begins, dozingly and dully, with a few sacks
of corn; starts into a surprising collection of boots and shoes;
goes brawling down the hill in a diversified channel of old
cordage, old iron, old crockery, old clothes, civil and military,
old rags, new cotton goods, flaming prints of saints, little
looking-glasses, and incalculable lengths of tape; dives into a
backway, keeping out of sight for a little while, as streams will,
or only sparkling for a moment in the shape of a market drinking-
shop; and suddenly reappears behind the great church, shooting
itself into a bright confusion of white-capped women and blue-
bloused men, poultry, vegetables, fruits, flowers, pots, pans,
praying-chairs, soldiers, country butter, umbrellas and other sun-
shades, girl-porters waiting to be hired with baskets at their
backs, and one weazen little old man in a cocked hat, wearing a
cuirass of drinking-glasses and carrying on his shoulder a crimson
temple fluttering with flags, like a glorified pavior's rammer
without the handle, who rings a little bell in all parts of the
scene, and cries his cooling drink Hola, Hola, Ho-o-o! in a shrill
cracked voice that somehow makes itself heard, above all the
chaffering and vending hum. Early in the afternoon, the whole
course of the stream is dry. The praying-chairs are put back in
the church, the umbrellas are folded up, the unsold goods are
carried away, the stalls and stands disappear, the square is swept,
the hackney coaches lounge there to be hired, and on all the
country roads (if you walk about, as much as we do) you will see
the peasant women, always neatly and comfortably dressed, riding
home, with the pleasantest saddle-furniture of clean milk-pails,
bright butter-kegs, and the like, on the jolliest little donkeys in
the world.

We have another market in our French watering-place - that is to
say, a few wooden hutches in the open street, down by the Port -
devoted to fish. Our fishing-boats are famous everywhere; and our
fishing people, though they love lively colours, and taste is
neutral (see Bilkins), are among the most picturesque people we
ever encountered. They have not only a quarter of their own in the
town itself, but they occupy whole villages of their own on the
neighbouring cliffs. Their churches and chapels are their own;
they consort with one another, they intermarry among themselves,
their customs are their own, and their costume is their own and
never changes. As soon as one of their boys can walk, he is
provided with a long bright red nightcap; and one of their men
would as soon think of going afloat without his head, as without
that indispensable appendage to it. Then, they wear the noblest
boots, with the hugest tops - flapping and bulging over anyhow;
above which, they encase themselves in such wonderful overalls and
petticoat trousers, made to all appearance of tarry old sails, so
additionally stiffened with pitch and salt, that the wearers have a
walk of their own, and go straddling and swinging about among the
boats and barrels and nets and rigging, a sight to see. Then,
their younger women, by dint of going down to the sea barefoot, to
fling their baskets into the boats as they come in with the tide,
and bespeak the first fruits of the haul with propitiatory promises
to love and marry that dear fisherman who shall fill that basket
like an Angel, have the finest legs ever carved by Nature in the
brightest mahogany, and they walk like Juno. Their eyes, too, are
so lustrous that their long gold ear-rings turn dull beside those
brilliant neighbours; and when they are dressed, what with these
beauties, and their fine fresh faces, and their many petticoats -
striped petticoats, red petticoats, blue petticoats, always clean
and smart, and never too long - and their home-made stockings,
mulberry-coloured, blue, brown, purple, lilac - which the older
women, taking care of the Dutch-looking children, sit in all sorts
of places knitting, knitting, knitting from morning to night - and
what with their little saucy bright blue jackets, knitted too, and
fitting close to their handsome figures; and what with the natural
grace with which they wear the commonest cap, or fold the commonest
handkerchief round their luxuriant hair - we say, in a word and out
of breath, that taking all these premises into our consideration,
it has never been a matter of the least surprise to us that we have
never once met, in the cornfields, on the dusty roads, by the
breezy windmills, on the plots of short sweet grass overhanging the
sea - anywhere - a young fisherman and fisherwoman of our French
watering-place together, but the arm of that fisherman has
invariably been, as a matter of course and without any absurd
attempt to disguise so plain a necessity, round the neck or waist
of that fisherwoman. And we have had no doubt whatever, standing
looking at their uphill streets, house rising above house, and
terrace above terrace, and bright garments here and there lying
sunning on rough stone parapets, that the pleasant mist on all such
objects, caused by their being seen through the brown nets hung
across on poles to dry, is, in the eyes of every true young
fisherman, a mist of love and beauty, setting off the goddess of
his heart.

Moreover it is to be observed that these are an industrious people,
and a domestic people, and an honest people. And though we are
aware that at the bidding of Bilkins it is our duty to fall down
and worship the Neapolitans, we make bold very much to prefer the
fishing people of our French watering-place - especially since our
last visit to Naples within these twelvemonths, when we found only
four conditions of men remaining in the whole city: to wit,
lazzaroni, priests, spies, and soldiers, and all of them beggars;
the paternal government having banished all its subjects except the
rascals.

But we can never henceforth separate our French watering-place from
our own landlord of two summers, M. Loyal Devasseur, citizen and
town-councillor. Permit us to have the pleasure of presenting M.
Loyal Devasseur.

His own family name is simply Loyal; but, as he is married, and as
in that part of France a husband always adds to his own name the
family name of his wife, he writes himself Loyal Devasseur. He
owns a compact little estate of some twenty or thirty acres on a
lofty hill-side, and on it he has built two country houses, which
he lets furnished. They are by many degrees the best houses that
are so let near our French watering-place; we have had the honour
of living in both, and can testify. The entrance-hall of the first
we inhabited was ornamented with a plan of the estate, representing
it as about twice the size of Ireland; insomuch that when we were
yet new to the property (M. Loyal always speaks of it as 'La
propriete') we went three miles straight on end in search of the
bridge of Austerlitz - which we afterwards found to be immediately
outside the window. The Chateau of the Old Guard, in another part
of the grounds, and, according to the plan, about two leagues from
the little dining-room, we sought in vain for a week, until,
happening one evening to sit upon a bench in the forest (forest in
the plan), a few yards from the house-door, we observed at our
feet, in the ignominious circumstances of being upside down and
greenly rotten, the Old Guard himself: that is to say, the painted
effigy of a member of that distinguished corps, seven feet high,
and in the act of carrying arms, who had had the misfortune to be
blown down in the previous winter. It will be perceived that M.
Loyal is a staunch admirer of the great Napoleon. He is an old
soldier himself - captain of the National Guard, with a handsome
gold vase on his chimney-piece presented to him by his company -
and his respect for the memory of the illustrious general is
enthusiastic. Medallions of him, portraits of him, busts of him,
pictures of him, are thickly sprinkled all over the property.
During the first month of our occupation, it was our affliction to
be constantly knocking down Napoleon: if we touched a shelf in a
dark corner, he toppled over with a crash; and every door we
opened, shook him to the soul. Yet M. Loyal is not a man of mere
castles in the air, or, as he would say, in Spain. He has a
specially practical, contriving, clever, skilful eye and hand. His
houses are delightful. He unites French elegance and English
comfort, in a happy manner quite his own. He has an extraordinary
genius for making tasteful little bedrooms in angles of his roofs,
which an Englishman would as soon think of turning to any account
as he would think of cultivating the Desert. We have ourself
reposed deliciously in an elegant chamber of M. Loyal's
construction, with our head as nearly in the kitchen chimney-pot as
we can conceive it likely for the head of any gentleman, not by
profession a Sweep, to be. And, into whatsoever strange nook M.
Loyal's genius penetrates, it, in that nook, infallibly constructs
a cupboard and a row of pegs. In either of our houses, we could
have put away the knapsacks and hung up the hats of the whole
regiment of Guides.

Aforetime, M. Loyal was a tradesman in the town. You can transact
business with no present tradesman in the town, and give your card
'chez M. Loyal,' but a brighter face shines upon you directly. We
doubt if there is, ever was, or ever will be, a man so universally
pleasant in the minds of people as M. Loyal is in the minds of the
citizens of our French watering-place. They rub their hands and
laugh when they speak of him. Ah, but he is such a good child,
such a brave boy, such a generous spirit, that Monsieur Loyal! It
is the honest truth. M. Loyal's nature is the nature of a
gentleman. He cultivates his ground with his own hands (assisted
by one little labourer, who falls into a fit now and then); and he
digs and delves from morn to eve in prodigious perspirations -
'works always,' as he says - but, cover him with dust, mud, weeds,
water, any stains you will, you never can cover the gentleman in M.
Loyal. A portly, upright, broad-shouldered, brown-faced man, whose
soldierly bearing gives him the appearance of being taller than he
is, look into the bright eye of M. Loyal, standing before you in
his working-blouse and cap, not particularly well shaved, and, it
may be, very earthy, and you shall discern in M. Loyal a gentleman
whose true politeness is ingrain, and confirmation of whose word by
his bond you would blush to think of. Not without reason is M.
Loyal when he tells that story, in his own vivacious way, of his
travelling to Fulham, near London, to buy all these hundreds and
hundreds of trees you now see upon the Property, then a bare, bleak
hill; and of his sojourning in Fulham three months; and of his
jovial evenings with the market-gardeners; and of the crowning
banquet before his departure, when the market-gardeners rose as one
man, clinked their glasses all together (as the custom at Fulham
is), and cried, 'Vive Loyal!'

M. Loyal has an agreeable wife, but no family; and he loves to
drill the children of his tenants, or run races with them, or do
anything with them, or for them, that is good-natured. He is of a
highly convivial temperament, and his hospitality is unbounded.
Billet a soldier on him, and he is delighted. Five-and-thirty
soldiers had M. Loyal billeted on him this present summer, and they
all got fat and red-faced in two days. It became a legend among
the troops that whosoever got billeted on M. Loyal rolled in
clover; and so it fell out that the fortunate man who drew the
billet 'M. Loyal Devasseur' always leaped into the air, though in
heavy marching order. M. Loyal cannot bear to admit anything that
might seem by any implication to disparage the military profession.
We hinted to him once, that we were conscious of a remote doubt
arising in our mind, whether a sou a day for pocket-money, tobacco,
stockings, drink, washing, and social pleasures in general, left a
very large margin for a soldier's enjoyment. Pardon! said Monsieur
Loyal, rather wincing. It was not a fortune, but - a la bonne
heure - it was better than it used to be! What, we asked him on
another occasion, were all those neighbouring peasants, each living
with his family in one room, and each having a soldier (perhaps
two) billeted on him every other night, required to provide for
those soldiers? 'Faith!' said M. Loyal, reluctantly; a bed,
monsieur, and fire to cook with, and a candle. And they share
their supper with those soldiers. It is not possible that they
could eat alone.' - 'And what allowance do they get for this?' said
we. Monsieur Loyal drew himself up taller, took a step back, laid
his hand upon his breast, and said, with majesty, as speaking for
himself and all France, 'Monsieur, it is a contribution to the
State!'

It is never going to rain, according to M. Loyal. When it is
impossible to deny that it is now raining in torrents, he says it
will be fine - charming - magnificent - to-morrow. It is never hot
on the Property, he contends. Likewise it is never cold. The
flowers, he says, come out, delighting to grow there; it is like
Paradise this morning; it is like the Garden of Eden. He is a
little fanciful in his language: smilingly observing of Madame
Loyal, when she is absent at vespers, that she is 'gone to her
salvation' - allee a son salut. He has a great enjoyment of
tobacco, but nothing would induce him to continue smoking face to
face with a lady. His short black pipe immediately goes into his
breast pocket, scorches his blouse, and nearly sets him on fire.
In the Town Council and on occasions of ceremony, he appears in a
full suit of black, with a waistcoat of magnificent breadth across
the chest, and a shirt-collar of fabulous proportions. Good M.
Loyal! Under blouse or waistcoat, he carries one of the gentlest
hearts that beat in a nation teeming with gentle people. He has
had losses, and has been at his best under them. Not only the loss
of his way by night in the Fulham times - when a bad subject of an
Englishman, under pretence of seeing him home, took him into all
the night public-houses, drank 'arfanarf' in every one at his
expense, and finally fled, leaving him shipwrecked at Cleefeeway,
which we apprehend to be Ratcliffe Highway - but heavier losses
than that. Long ago a family of children and a mother were left in
one of his houses without money, a whole year. M. Loyal - anything
but as rich as we wish he had been - had not the heart to say 'you
must go;' so they stayed on and stayed on, and paying-tenants who
would have come in couldn't come in, and at last they managed to
get helped home across the water; and M. Loyal kissed the whole
group, and said, 'Adieu, my poor infants!' and sat down in their
deserted salon and smoked his pipe of peace. - 'The rent, M.
Loyal?'  'Eh! well! The rent!'  M. Loyal shakes his head. 'Le bon
Dieu,' says M. Loyal presently, 'will recompense me,' and he laughs
and smokes his pipe of peace. May he smoke it on the Property, and
not be recompensed, these fifty years!

There are public amusements in our French watering-place, or it
would not be French. They are very popular, and very cheap. The
sea-bathing - which may rank as the most favoured daylight
entertainment, inasmuch as the French visitors bathe all day long,
and seldom appear to think of remaining less than an hour at a time
in the water - is astoundingly cheap. Omnibuses convey you, if you
please, from a convenient part of the town to the beach and back
again; you have a clean and comfortable bathing-machine, dress,
linen, and all appliances; and the charge for the whole is half-a-
franc, or fivepence. On the pier, there is usually a guitar, which
seems presumptuously enough to set its tinkling against the deep
hoarseness of the sea, and there is always some boy or woman who
sings, without any voice, little songs without any tune: the strain
we have most frequently heard being an appeal to 'the sportsman'
not to bag that choicest of game, the swallow. For bathing
purposes, we have also a subscription establishment with an
esplanade, where people lounge about with telescopes, and seem to
get a good deal of weariness for their money; and we have also an
association of individual machine proprietors combined against this
formidable rival. M. Feroce, our own particular friend in the
bathing line, is one of these. How he ever came by his name we
cannot imagine. He is as gentle and polite a man as M. Loyal
Devasseur himself; immensely stout withal; and of a beaming aspect.
M. Feroce has saved so many people from drowning, and has been
decorated with so many medals in consequence, that his stoutness
seems a special dispensation of Providence to enable him to wear
them; if his girth were the girth of an ordinary man, he could
never hang them on, all at once. It is only on very great
occasions that M. Feroce displays his shining honours. At other
times they lie by, with rolls of manuscript testifying to the
causes of their presentation, in a huge glass case in the red-
sofa'd salon of his private residence on the beach, where M. Feroce
also keeps his family pictures, his portraits of himself as he
appears both in bathing life and in private life, his little boats
that rock by clockwork, and his other ornamental possessions.

Then, we have a commodious and gay Theatre - or had, for it is
burned down now - where the opera was always preceded by a
vaudeville, in which (as usual) everybody, down to the little old
man with the large hat and the little cane and tassel, who always
played either my Uncle or my Papa, suddenly broke out of the
dialogue into the mildest vocal snatches, to the great perplexity
of unaccustomed strangers from Great Britain, who never could make
out when they were singing and when they were talking - and indeed
it was pretty much the same. But, the caterers in the way of
entertainment to whom we are most beholden, are the Society of
Welldoing, who are active all the summer, and give the proceeds of
their good works to the poor. Some of the most agreeable fetes
they contrive, are announced as 'Dedicated to the children;' and
the taste with which they turn a small public enclosure into an
elegant garden beautifully illuminated; and the thorough-going
heartiness and energy with which they personally direct the
childish pleasures; are supremely delightful. For fivepence a
head, we have on these occasions donkey races with English
'Jokeis,' and other rustic sports; lotteries for toys; roundabouts,
dancing on the grass to the music of an admirable band, fire-
balloons and fireworks. Further, almost every week all through the
summer - never mind, now, on what day of the week - there is a fete
in some adjoining village (called in that part of the country a
Ducasse), where the people - really THE PEOPLE - dance on the green
turf in the open air, round a little orchestra, that seems itself
to dance, there is such an airy motion of flags and streamers all
about it. And we do not suppose that between the Torrid Zone and
the North Pole there are to be found male dancers with such
astonishingly loose legs, furnished with so many joints in wrong
places, utterly unknown to Professor Owen, as those who here
disport themselves. Sometimes, the fete appertains to a particular
trade; you will see among the cheerful young women at the joint
Ducasse of the milliners and tailors, a wholesome knowledge of the
art of making common and cheap things uncommon and pretty, by good
sense and good taste, that is a practical lesson to any rank of
society in a whole island we could mention. The oddest feature of
these agreeable scenes is the everlasting Roundabout (we preserve
an English word wherever we can, as we are writing the English
language), on the wooden horses of which machine grown-up people of
all ages are wound round and round with the utmost solemnity, while
the proprietor's wife grinds an organ, capable of only one tune, in
the centre.

As to the boarding-houses of our French watering-place, they are
Legion, and would require a distinct treatise. It is not without a
sentiment of national pride that we believe them to contain more
bores from the shores of Albion than all the clubs in London. As
you walk timidly in their neighbourhood, the very neckcloths and
hats of your elderly compatriots cry to you from the stones of the
streets, 'We are Bores - avoid us!'  We have never overheard at
street corners such lunatic scraps of political and social
discussion as among these dear countrymen of ours. They believe
everything that is impossible and nothing that is true. They carry
rumours, and ask questions, and make corrections and improvements
on one another, staggering to the human intellect. And they are
for ever rushing into the English library, propounding such
incomprehensible paradoxes to the fair mistress of that
establishment, that we beg to recommend her to her Majesty's
gracious consideration as a fit object for a pension.

The English form a considerable part of the population of our
French watering-place, and are deservedly addressed and respected
in many ways. Some of the surface-addresses to them are odd
enough, as when a laundress puts a placard outside her house
announcing her possession of that curious British instrument, a
'Mingle;' or when a tavern-keeper provides accommodation for the
celebrated English game of 'Nokemdon.'  But, to us, it is not the
least pleasant feature of our French watering-place that a long and
constant fusion of the two great nations there, has taught each to
like the other, and to learn from the other, and to rise superior
to the absurd prejudices that have lingered among the weak and
ignorant in both countries equally.

Drumming and trumpeting of course go on for ever in our French
watering-place. Flag-flying is at a premium, too; but, we
cheerfully avow that we consider a flag a very pretty object, and
that we take such outward signs of innocent liveliness to our heart
of hearts. The people, in the town and in the country, are a busy
people who work hard; they are sober, temperate, good-humoured,
light-hearted, and generally remarkable for their engaging manners.
Few just men, not immoderately bilious, could see them in their
recreations without very much respecting the character that is so
easily, so harmlessly, and so simply, pleased.

BILL-STICKING

IF I had an enemy whom I hated - which Heaven forbid! - and if I
knew of something which sat heavy on his conscience, I think I
would introduce that something into a Posting-Bill, and place a
large impression in the hands of an active sticker. I can scarcely
imagine a more terrible revenge. I should haunt him, by this
means, night and day. I do not mean to say that I would publish
his secret, in red letters two feet high, for all the town to read:
I would darkly refer to it. It should be between him, and me, and
the Posting-Bill. Say, for example, that, at a certain period of
his life, my enemy had surreptitiously possessed himself of a key.
I would then embark my capital in the lock business, and conduct
that business on the advertising principle. In all my placards and
advertisements, I would throw up the line SECRET KEYS. Thus, if my
enemy passed an uninhabited house, he would see his conscience
glaring down on him from the parapets, and peeping up at him from
the cellars. If he took a dead wall in his walk, it would be alive
with reproaches. If he sought refuge in an omnibus, the panels
thereof would become Belshazzar's palace to him. If he took boat,
in a wild endeavour to escape, he would see the fatal words lurking
under the arches of the bridges over the Thames. If he walked the
streets with downcast eyes, he would recoil from the very stones of
the pavement, made eloquent by lamp-black lithograph. If he drove
or rode, his way would be blocked up by enormous vans, each
proclaiming the same words over and over again from its whole
extent of surface. Until, having gradually grown thinner and
paler, and having at last totally rejected food, he would miserably
perish, and I should be revenged. This conclusion I should, no
doubt, celebrate by laughing a hoarse laugh in three syllables, and
folding my arms tight upon my chest agreeably to most of the
examples of glutted animosity that I have had an opportunity of
observing in connexion with the Drama - which, by-the-by, as
involving a good deal of noise, appears to me to be occasionally
confounded with the Drummer.

The foregoing reflections presented themselves to my mind, the
other day, as I contemplated (being newly come to London from the
East Riding of Yorkshire, on a house-hunting expedition for next
May), an old warehouse which rotting paste and rotting paper had
brought down to the condition of an old cheese. It would have been
impossible to say, on the most conscientious survey, how much of
its front was brick and mortar, and how much decaying and decayed
plaster. It was so thickly encrusted with fragments of bills, that
no ship's keel after a long voyage could be half so foul. All
traces of the broken windows were billed out, the doors were billed
across, the water-spout was billed over. The building was shored
up to prevent its tumbling into the street; and the very beams
erected against it were less wood than paste and paper, they had
been so continually posted and reposted. The forlorn dregs of old
posters so encumbered this wreck, that there was no hold for new
posters, and the stickers had abandoned the place in despair,
except one enterprising man who had hoisted the last masquerade to
a clear spot near the level of the stack of chimneys where it waved
and drooped like a shattered flag. Below the rusty cellar-grating,
crumpled remnants of old bills torn down, rotted away in wasting
heaps of fallen leaves. Here and there, some of the thick rind of
the house had peeled off in strips, and fluttered heavily down,
littering the street; but, still, below these rents and gashes,
layers of decomposing posters showed themselves, as if they were
interminable. I thought the building could never even be pulled
down, but in one adhesive heap of rottenness and poster. As to
getting in - I don't believe that if the Sleeping Beauty and her
Court had been so billed up, the young Prince could have done it.

Knowing all the posters that were yet legible, intimately, and
pondering on their ubiquitous nature, I was led into the
reflections with which I began this paper, by considering what an
awful thing it would be, ever to have wronged - say M. JULLIEN for
example - and to have his avenging name in characters of fire
incessantly before my eyes. Or to have injured MADAME TUSSAUD, and
undergo a similar retribution. Has any man a self-reproachful
thought associated with pills, or ointment? What an avenging
spirit to that man is PROFESSOR HOLLOWAY! Have I sinned in oil?
CABBURN pursues me. Have I a dark remembrance associated with any
gentlemanly garments, bespoke or ready made? MOSES and SON are on
my track. Did I ever aim a blow at a defenceless fellow-creature's
head? That head eternally being measured for a wig, or that worse
head which was bald before it used the balsam, and hirsute
afterwards - enforcing the benevolent moral, 'Better to be bald as
a Dutch cheese than come to this,' - undoes me. Have I no sore
places in my mind which MECHI touches - which NICOLL probes - which
no registered article whatever lacerates? Does no discordant note
within me thrill responsive to mysterious watchwords, as 'Revalenta
Arabica,' or 'Number One St. Paul's Churchyard'? Then may I enjoy
life, and be happy.

Lifting up my eyes, as I was musing to this effect, I beheld
advancing towards me (I was then on Cornhill, near to the Royal
Exchange), a solemn procession of three advertising vans, of first-
class dimensions, each drawn by a very little horse. As the
cavalcade approached, I was at a loss to reconcile the careless
deportment of the drivers of these vehicles, with the terrific
announcements they conducted through the city, which being a
summary of the contents of a Sunday newspaper, were of the most
thrilling kind. Robbery, fire, murder, and the ruin of the United
Kingdom - each discharged in a line by itself, like a separate
broad-side of red-hot shot - were among the least of the warnings
addressed to an unthinking people. Yet, the Ministers of Fate who
drove the awful cars, leaned forward with their arms upon their
knees in a state of extreme lassitude, for want of any subject of
interest. The first man, whose hair I might naturally have
expected to see standing on end, scratched his head - one of the
smoothest I ever beheld - with profound indifference. The second
whistled. The third yawned.

Pausing to dwell upon this apathy, it appeared to me, as the fatal
cars came by me, that I descried in the second car, through the
portal in which the charioteer was seated, a figure stretched upon
the floor. At the same time, I thought I smelt tobacco. The
latter impression passed quickly from me; the former remained.
Curious to know whether this prostrate figure was the one
impressible man of the whole capital who had been stricken
insensible by the terrors revealed to him, and whose form had been
placed in the car by the charioteer, from motives of humanity, I
followed the procession. It turned into Leadenhall-market, and
halted at a public-house. Each driver dismounted. I then
distinctly heard, proceeding from the second car, where I had dimly
seen the prostrate form, the words:

'And a pipe!'

The driver entering the public-house with his fellows, apparently
for purposes of refreshment, I could not refrain from mounting on
the shaft of the second vehicle, and looking in at the portal. I
then beheld, reclining on his back upon the floor, on a kind of
mattress or divan, a little man in a shooting-coat. The
exclamation 'Dear me' which irresistibly escaped my lips caused him
to sit upright, and survey me. I found him to be a good-looking
little man of about fifty, with a shining face, a tight head, a
bright eye, a moist wink, a quick speech, and a ready air. He had
something of a sporting way with him.

He looked at me, and I looked at him, until the driver displaced me
by handing in a pint of beer, a pipe, and what I understand is
called 'a screw' of tobacco - an object which has the appearance of
a curl-paper taken off the barmaid's head, with the curl in it.

'I beg your pardon,' said I, when the removed person of the driver
again admitted of my presenting my face at the portal. 'But -
excuse my curiosity, which I inherit from my mother - do you live
here?'

'That's good, too!' returned the little man, composedly laying
aside a pipe he had smoked out, and filling the pipe just brought
to him.

'Oh, you DON'T live here then?' said I.

He shook his head, as he calmly lighted his pipe by means of a
German tinder-box, and replied, 'This is my carriage. When things
are flat, I take a ride sometimes, and enjoy myself. I am the
inventor of these wans.'

His pipe was now alight. He drank his beer all at once, and he
smoked and he smiled at me.

'It was a great idea!' said I.

'Not so bad,' returned the little man, with the modesty of merit.

'Might I be permitted to inscribe your name upon the tablets of my
memory?' I asked.

'There's not much odds in the name,' returned the little man, ' -
no name particular - I am the King of the Bill-Stickers.'

'Good gracious!' said I.

The monarch informed me, with a smile, that he had never been
crowned or installed with any public ceremonies, but that he was
peaceably acknowledged as King of the Bill-Stickers in right of
being the oldest and most respected member of 'the old school of
bill-sticking.'  He likewise gave me to understand that there was a
Lord Mayor of the Bill-Stickers, whose genius was chiefly exercised
within the limits of the city. He made some allusion, also, to an
inferior potentate, called 'Turkey-legs;' but I did not understand
that this gentleman was invested with much power. I rather
inferred that he derived his title from some peculiarity of gait,
and that it was of an honorary character.

'My father,' pursued the King of the Bill-Stickers, 'was Engineer,
Beadle, and Bill-Sticker to the parish of St. Andrew's, Holborn, in
the year one thousand seven hundred and eighty. My father stuck
bills at the time of the riots of London.'

'You must be acquainted with the whole subject of bill-sticking,
from that time to the present!' said I.

'Pretty well so,' was the answer.

'Excuse me,' said I; 'but I am a sort of collector - '

''Not Income-tax?' cried His Majesty, hastily removing his pipe
from his lips.

'No, no,' said I.

'Water-rate?' said His Majesty.

'No, no,' I returned.

'Gas? Assessed? Sewers?' said His Majesty.

'You misunderstand me,' I replied, soothingly. 'Not that sort of
collector at all: a collector of facts.'

'Oh, if it's only facts,' cried the King of the Bill-Stickers,
recovering his good-humour, and banishing the great mistrust that
had suddenly fallen upon him, 'come in and welcome! If it had been
income, or winders, I think I should have pitched you out of the
wan, upon my soul!'

Readily complying with the invitation, I squeezed myself in at the
small aperture. His Majesty, graciously handing me a little three-
legged stool on which I took my seat in a corner, inquired if I
smoked.

'I do; - that is, I can,' I answered.

'Pipe and a screw!' said His Majesty to the attendant charioteer.
'Do you prefer a dry smoke, or do you moisten it?'

As unmitigated tobacco produces most disturbing effects upon my
system (indeed, if I had perfect moral courage, I doubt if I should
smoke at all, under any circumstances), I advocated moisture, and
begged the Sovereign of the Bill-Stickers to name his usual liquor,
and to concede to me the privilege of paying for it. After some
delicate reluctance on his part, we were provided, through the
instrumentality of the attendant charioteer, with a can of cold
rum-and-water, flavoured with sugar and lemon. We were also
furnished with a tumbler, and I was provided with a pipe. His
Majesty, then observing that we might combine business with
conversation, gave the word for the car to proceed; and, to my
great delight, we jogged away at a foot pace.

I say to my great delight, because I am very fond of novelty, and
it was a new sensation to be jolting through the tumult of the city
in that secluded Temple, partly open to the sky, surrounded by the
roar without, and seeing nothing but the clouds. Occasionally,
blows from whips fell heavily on the Temple's walls, when by
stopping up the road longer than usual, we irritated carters and
coachmen to madness; but they fell harmless upon us within and
disturbed not the serenity of our peaceful retreat. As I looked
upward, I felt, I should imagine, like the Astronomer Royal. I was
enchanted by the contrast between the freezing nature of our
external mission on the blood of the populace, and the perfect
composure reigning within those sacred precincts: where His
Majesty, reclining easily on his left arm, smoked his pipe and
drank his rum-and-water from his own side of the tumbler, which
stood impartially between us. As I looked down from the clouds and
caught his royal eye, he understood my reflections. 'I have an
idea,' he observed, with an upward glance, 'of training scarlet
runners across in the season, - making a arbour of it, - and
sometimes taking tea in the same, according to the song.'

I nodded approval.

'And here you repose and think?' said I.

'And think,' said he, 'of posters - walls - and hoardings.'

We were both silent, contemplating the vastness of the subject. I
remembered a surprising fancy of dear THOMAS HOOD'S, and wondered
whether this monarch ever sighed to repair to the great wall of
China, and stick bills all over it.

'And so,' said he, rousing himself, 'it's facts as you collect?'

'Facts,' said I.

'The facts of bill-sticking,' pursued His Majesty, in a benignant
manner, 'as known to myself, air as following. When my father was
Engineer, Beadle, and Bill-Sticker to the parish of St. Andrew's,
Holborn, he employed women to post bills for him. He employed
women to post bills at the time of the riots of London. He died at
the age of seventy-five year, and was buried by the murdered Eliza
Grimwood, over in the Waterloo Road.'

As this was somewhat in the nature of a royal speech, I listened
with deference and silently. His Majesty, taking a scroll from his
pocket, proceeded, with great distinctness, to pour out the
following flood of information:-

'"The bills being at that period mostly proclamations and
declarations, and which were only a demy size, the manner of
posting the bills (as they did not use brushes) was by means of a
piece of wood which they called a 'dabber.'  Thus things continued
till such time as the State Lottery was passed, and then the
printers began to print larger bills, and men were employed instead
of women, as the State Lottery Commissioners then began to send men
all over England to post bills, and would keep them out for six or
eight months at a time, and they were called by the London bill-
stickers 'TRAMPERS,' their wages at the time being ten shillings
per day, besides expenses. They used sometimes to be stationed in
large towns for five or six months together, distributing the
schemes to all the houses in the town. And then there were more
caricature wood-block engravings for posting-bills than there are
at the present time, the principal printers, at that time, of
posting-bills being Messrs. Evans and Ruffy, of Budge Row;
Thoroughgood and Whiting, of the present day; and Messrs. Gye and
Balne, Gracechurch Street, City. The largest bills printed at that
period were a two-sheet double crown; and when they commenced
printing four-sheet bills, two bill-stickers would work together.
They had no settled wages per week, but had a fixed price for their
work, and the London bill-stickers, during a lottery week, have
been known to earn, each, eight or nine pounds per week, till the
day of drawing; likewise the men who carried boards in the street
used to have one pound per week, and the bill-stickers at that time
would not allow any one to wilfully cover or destroy their bills,
as they had a society amongst themselves, and very frequently dined
together at some public-house where they used to go of an evening
to have their work delivered out untoe 'em."'

All this His Majesty delivered in a gallant manner; posting it, as
it were, before me, in a great proclamation. I took advantage of
the pause he now made, to inquire what a 'two-sheet double crown'
might express?

'A two-sheet double crown,' replied the King, 'is a bill thirty-
nine inches wide by thirty inches high.'

'Is it possible,' said I, my mind reverting to the gigantic
admonitions we were then displaying to the multitude - which were
as infants to some of the posting-bills on the rotten old warehouse
- 'that some few years ago the largest bill was no larger than
that?'

'The fact,' returned the King, 'is undoubtedly so.'  Here he
instantly rushed again into the scroll.

'"Since the abolishing of the State Lottery all that good feeling
has gone, and nothing but jealousy exists, through the rivalry of
each other. Several bill-sticking companies have started, but have
failed. The first party that started a company was twelve year
ago; but what was left of the old school and their dependants
joined together and opposed them. And for some time we were quiet
again, till a printer of Hatton Garden formed a company by hiring
the sides of houses; but he was not supported by the public, and he
left his wooden frames fixed up for rent. The last company that
started, took advantage of the New Police Act, and hired of Messrs.
Grissell and Peto the hoarding of Trafalgar Square, and established
a bill-sticking office in Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, and
engaged some of the new bill-stickers to do their work, and for a
time got the half of all our work, and with such spirit did they
carry on their opposition towards us, that they used to give us in
charge before the magistrate, and get us fined; but they found it
so expensive, that they could not keep it up, for they were always
employing a lot of ruffians from the Seven Dials to come and fight
us; and on one occasion the old bill-stickers went to Trafalgar
Square to attempt to post bills, when they were given in custody by
the watchman in their employ, and fined at Queen Square five
pounds, as they would not allow any of us to speak in the office;
but when they were gone, we had an interview with the magistrate,
who mitigated the fine to fifteen shillings. During the time the
men were waiting for the fine, this company started off to a
public-house that we were in the habit of using, and waited for us
coming back, where a fighting scene took place that beggars
description. Shortly after this, the principal one day came and
shook hands with us, and acknowledged that he had broken up the
company, and that he himself had lost five hundred pound in trying
to overthrow us. We then took possession of the hoarding in
Trafalgar Square; but Messrs. Grissell and Peto would not allow us
to post our bills on the said hoarding without paying them - and
from first to last we paid upwards of two hundred pounds for that
hoarding, and likewise the hoarding of the Reform Club-house, Pall
Mall."'

His Majesty, being now completely out of breath, laid down his
scroll (which he appeared to have finished), puffed at his pipe,
and took some rum-and-water. I embraced the opportunity of asking
how many divisions the art and mystery of bill-sticking comprised?
He replied, three - auctioneers' bill-sticking, theatrical bill-
sticking, general bill-sticking.

'The auctioneers' porters,' said the King, 'who do their bill-
sticking, are mostly respectable and intelligent, and generally
well paid for their work, whether in town or country. The price
paid by the principal auctioneers for country work is nine
shillings per day; that is, seven shillings for day's work, one
shilling for lodging, and one for paste. Town work is five
shillings a day, including paste.'

'Town work must be rather hot work,' said I, 'if there be many of
those fighting scenes that beggar description, among the bill-
stickers?'

'Well,' replied the King, 'I an't a stranger, I assure you, to
black eyes; a bill-sticker ought to know how to handle his fists a
bit. As to that row I have mentioned, that grew out of
competition, conducted in an uncompromising spirit. Besides a man
in a horse-and-shay continually following us about, the company had
a watchman on duty, night and day, to prevent us sticking bills
upon the hoarding in Trafalgar Square. We went there, early one
morning, to stick bills and to black-wash their bills if we were
interfered with. We WERE interfered with, and I gave the word for
laying on the wash. It WAS laid on - pretty brisk - and we were
all taken to Queen Square: but they couldn't fine ME. I knew
that,' - with a bright smile - 'I'd only give directions - I was
only the General.'  Charmed with this monarch's affability, I
inquired if he had ever hired a hoarding himself.

'Hired a large one,' he replied, 'opposite the Lyceum Theatre, when
the buildings was there. Paid thirty pound for it; let out places
on it, and called it "The External Paper-Hanging Station."  But it
didn't answer. Ah!' said His Majesty thoughtfully, as he filled
the glass, 'Bill-stickers have a deal to contend with. The bill-
sticking clause was got into the Police Act by a member of
Parliament that employed me at his election. The clause is pretty
stiff respecting where bills go; but HE didn't mind where HIS bills
went. It was all right enough, so long as they was HIS bills!'

Fearful that I observed a shadow of misanthropy on the King's
cheerful face, I asked whose ingenious invention that was, which I
greatly admired, of sticking bills under the arches of the bridges.

'Mine!' said His Majesty. 'I was the first that ever stuck a bill
under a bridge! Imitators soon rose up, of course. - When don't
they? But they stuck 'em at low-water, and the tide came and swept
the bills clean away. I knew that!'  The King laughed.

'What may be the name of that instrument, like an immense fishing-
rod,' I inquired, 'with which bills are posted on high places?'

'The joints,' returned His Majesty. 'Now, we use the joints where
formerly we used ladders - as they do still in country places.
Once, when Madame' (Vestris, understood) 'was playing in Liverpool,
another bill-sticker and me were at it together on the wall outside
the Clarence Dock - me with the joints - him on a ladder. Lord! I
had my bill up, right over his head, yards above him, ladder and
all, while he was crawling to his work. The people going in and
out of the docks, stood and laughed! - It's about thirty years
since the joints come in.'

'Are there any bill-stickers who can't read?' I took the liberty of
inquiring.

'Some,' said the King. 'But they know which is the right side
up'ards of their work. They keep it as it's given out to 'em. I
have seen a bill or so stuck wrong side up'ards. But it's very
rare.'

Our discourse sustained some interruption at this point, by the
procession of cars occasioning a stoppage of about three-quarters
of a mile in length, as nearly as I could judge. His Majesty,
however, entreating me not to be discomposed by the contingent
uproar, smoked with great placidity, and surveyed the firmament.

When we were again in motion, I begged to be informed what was the
largest poster His Majesty had ever seen. The King replied, 'A
thirty-six sheet poster.'  I gathered, also, that there were about
a hundred and fifty bill-stickers in London, and that His Majesty
considered an average hand equal to the posting of one hundred
bills (single sheets) in a day. The King was of opinion, that,
although posters had much increased in size, they had not increased
in number; as the abolition of the State Lotteries had occasioned a
great falling off, especially in the country. Over and above which
change, I bethought myself that the custom of advertising in
newspapers had greatly increased. The completion of many London
improvements, as Trafalgar Square (I particularly observed the
singularity of His Majesty's calling THAT an improvement), the
Royal Exchange, &c., had of late years reduced the number of
advantageous posting-places. Bill-Stickers at present rather
confine themselves to districts, than to particular descriptions of
work. One man would strike over Whitechapel, another would take
round Houndsditch, Shoreditch, and the City Road; one (the King
said) would stick to the Surrey side; another would make a beat of
the West-end.

His Majesty remarked, with some approach to severity, on the
neglect of delicacy and taste, gradually introduced into the trade
by the new school: a profligate and inferior race of impostors who
took jobs at almost any price, to the detriment of the old school,
and the confusion of their own misguided employers. He considered
that the trade was overdone with competition, and observed speaking
of his subjects, 'There are too many of 'em.'  He believed, still,
that things were a little better than they had been; adducing, as a
proof, the fact that particular posting places were now reserved,
by common consent, for particular posters; those places, however,
must be regularly occupied by those posters, or, they lapsed and
fell into other hands. It was of no use giving a man a Drury Lane
bill this week and not next. Where was it to go? He was of
opinion that going to the expense of putting up your own board on
which your sticker could display your own bills, was the only
complete way of posting yourself at the present time; but, even to
effect this, on payment of a shilling a week to the keepers of
steamboat piers and other such places, you must be able, besides,
to give orders for theatres and public exhibitions, or you would be
sure to be cut out by somebody. His Majesty regarded the passion
for orders, as one of the most unappeasable appetites of human
nature. If there were a building, or if there were repairs, going
on, anywhere, you could generally stand something and make it right
with the foreman of the works; but, orders would be expected from
you, and the man who could give the most orders was the man who
would come off best. There was this other objectionable point, in
orders, that workmen sold them for drink, and often sold them to
persons who were likewise troubled with the weakness of thirst:
which led (His Majesty said) to the presentation of your orders at
Theatre doors, by individuals who were 'too shakery' to derive
intellectual profit from the entertainments, and who brought a
scandal on you. Finally, His Majesty said that you could hardly
put too little in a poster; what you wanted, was, two or three good
catch-lines for the eye to rest on - then, leave it alone - and
there you were!

These are the minutes of my conversation with His Majesty, as I
noted them down shortly afterwards. I am not aware that I have
been betrayed into any alteration or suppression. The manner of
the King was frank in the extreme; and he seemed to me to avoid, at
once that slight tendency to repetition which may have been
observed in the conversation of His Majesty King George the Third,
and - that slight under-current of egotism which the curious
observer may perhaps detect in the conversation of Napoleon
Bonaparte.

I must do the King the justice to say that it was I, and not he,
who closed the dialogue. At this juncture, I became the subject of
a remarkable optical delusion; the legs of my stool appeared to me
to double up; the car to spin round and round with great violence;
and a mist to arise between myself and His Majesty. In addition to
these sensations, I felt extremely unwell. I refer these
unpleasant effects, either to the paste with which the posters were
affixed to the van: which may have contained some small portion of
arsenic; or, to the printer's ink, which may have contained some
equally deleterious ingredient. Of this, I cannot be sure. I am
only sure that I was not affected, either by the smoke, or the rum-
and-water. I was assisted out of the vehicle, in a state of mind
which I have only experienced in two other places - I allude to the
Pier at Dover, and to the corresponding portion of the town of
Calais - and sat upon a door-step until I recovered. The
procession had then disappeared. I have since looked anxiously for
the King in several other cars, but I have not yet had the
happiness of seeing His Majesty.

'BIRTHS. MRS. MEEK, OF A SON

MY name is Meek. I am, in fact, Mr. Meek. That son is mine and
Mrs. Meek's. When I saw the announcement in the Times, I dropped
the paper. I had put it in, myself, and paid for it, but it looked
so noble that it overpowered me.

As soon as I could compose my feelings, I took the paper up to Mrs.
Meek's bedside. 'Maria Jane,' said I (I allude to Mrs. Meek), 'you
are now a public character.'  We read the review of our child,
several times, with feelings of the strongest emotion; and I sent
the boy who cleans the boots and shoes, to the office for fifteen
copies. No reduction was made on taking that quantity.

It is scarcely necessary for me to say, that our child had been
expected. In fact, it had been expected, with comparative
confidence, for some months. Mrs. Meek's mother, who resides with
us - of the name of Bigby - had made every preparation for its
admission to our circle.

I hope and believe I am a quiet man. I will go farther. I KNOW I
am a quiet man. My constitution is tremulous, my voice was never
loud, and, in point of stature, I have been from infancy, small. I
have the greatest respect for Maria Jane's Mama. She is a most
remarkable woman. I honour Maria Jane's Mama. In my opinion she
would storm a town, single-handed, with a hearth-broom, and carry
it. I have never known her to yield any point whatever, to mortal
man. She is calculated to terrify the stoutest heart.

Still - but I will not anticipate.

The first intimation I had, of any preparations being in progress,
on the part of Maria Jane's Mama, was one afternoon, several months
ago. I came home earlier than usual from the office, and,
proceeding into the dining-room, found an obstruction behind the
door, which prevented it from opening freely. It was an
obstruction of a soft nature. On looking in, I found it to be a
female.

The female in question stood in the corner behind the door,
consuming Sherry Wine. From the nutty smell of that beverage
pervading the apartment, I have no doubt she was consuming a second
glassful. She wore a black bonnet of large dimensions, and was
copious in figure. The expression of her countenance was severe
and discontented. The words to which she gave utterance on seeing
me, were these, 'Oh, git along with you, Sir, if YOU please; me and
Mrs. Bigby don't want no male parties here!'

That female was Mrs. Prodgit.

I immediately withdrew, of course. I was rather hurt, but I made
no remark. Whether it was that I showed a lowness of spirits after
dinner, in consequence of feeling that I seemed to intrude, I
cannot say. But, Maria Jane's Mama said to me on her retiring for
the night: in a low distinct voice, and with a look of reproach
that completely subdued me: 'George Meek, Mrs. Prodgit is your
wife's nurse!'

I bear no ill-will towards Mrs. Prodgit. Is it likely that I,
writing this with tears in my eyes, should be capable of deliberate
animosity towards a female, so essential to the welfare of Maria
Jane? I am willing to admit that Fate may have been to blame, and
not Mrs. Prodgit; but, it is undeniably true, that the latter
female brought desolation and devastation into my lowly dwelling.

We were happy after her first appearance; we were sometimes
exceedingly so. But, whenever the parlour door was opened, and
'Mrs. Prodgit!' announced (and she was very often announced),
misery ensued. I could not bear Mrs. Prodgit's look. I felt that
I was far from wanted, and had no business to exist in Mrs.
Prodgit's presence. Between Maria Jane's Mama, and Mrs. Prodgit,
there was a dreadful, secret, understanding - a dark mystery and
conspiracy, pointing me out as a being to be shunned. I appeared
to have done something that was evil. Whenever Mrs. Prodgit
called, after dinner, I retired to my dressing-room - where the
temperature is very low indeed, in the wintry time of the year -
and sat looking at my frosty breath as it rose before me, and at my
rack of boots; a serviceable article of furniture, but never, in my
opinion, an exhilarating object. The length of the councils that
were held with Mrs. Prodgit, under these circumstances, I will not
attempt to describe. I will merely remark, that Mrs. Prodgit
always consumed Sherry Wine while the deliberations were in
progress; that they always ended in Maria Jane's being in wretched
spirits on the sofa; and that Maria Jane's Mama always received me,
when I was recalled, with a look of desolate triumph that too
plainly said, 'NOW, George Meek! You see my child, Maria Jane, a
ruin, and I hope you are satisfied!'

I pass, generally, over the period that intervened between the day
when Mrs. Prodgit entered her protest against male parties, and the
ever-memorable midnight when I brought her to my unobtrusive home
in a cab, with an extremely large box on the roof, and a bundle, a
bandbox, and a basket, between the driver's legs. I have no
objection to Mrs. Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby, who I
never can forget is the parent of Maria Jane) taking entire
possession of my unassuming establishment. In the recesses of my
own breast, the thought may linger that a man in possession cannot
be so dreadful as a woman, and that woman Mrs. Prodgit; but, I
ought to bear a good deal, and I hope I can, and do. Huffing and
snubbing, prey upon my feelings; but, I can bear them without
complaint. They may tell in the long run; I may be hustled about,
from post to pillar, beyond my strength; nevertheless, I wish to
avoid giving rise to words in the family.

The voice of Nature, however, cries aloud in behalf of Augustus
George, my infant son. It is for him that I wish to utter a few
plaintive household words. I am not at all angry; I am mild - but
miserable.

I wish to know why, when my child, Augustus George, was expected in
our circle, a provision of pins was made, as if the little stranger
were a criminal who was to be put to the torture immediately, on
his arrival, instead of a holy babe? I wish to know why haste was
made to stick those pins all over his innocent form, in every
direction? I wish to be informed why light and air are excluded
from Augustus George, like poisons? Why, I ask, is my unoffending
infant so hedged into a basket-bedstead, with dimity and calico,
with miniature sheets and blankets, that I can only hear him
snuffle (and no wonder!) deep down under the pink hood of a little
bathing-machine, and can never peruse even so much of his
lineaments as his nose?

Was I expected to be the father of a French Roll, that the brushes
of All Nations were laid in, to rasp Augustus George? Am I to be
told that his sensitive skin was ever intended by Nature to have
rashes brought out upon it, by the premature and incessant use of
those formidable little instruments?

Is my son a Nutmeg, that he is to be grated on the stiff edges of
sharp frills? Am I the parent of a Muslin boy, that his yielding
surface is to be crimped and small plaited? Or is my child
composed of Paper or of Linen, that impressions of the finer
getting-up art, practised by the laundress, are to be printed off,
all over his soft arms and legs, as I constantly observe them? The
starch enters his soul; who can wonder that he cries?

Was Augustus George intended to have limbs, or to be born a Torso?
I presume that limbs were the intention, as they are the usual
practice. Then, why are my poor child's limbs fettered and tied
up? Am I to be told that there is any analogy between Augustus
George Meek and Jack Sheppard?

Analyse Castor Oil at any Institution of Chemistry that may be
agreed upon, and inform me what resemblance, in taste, it bears to
that natural provision which it is at once the pride and duty of
Maria Jane to administer to Augustus George! Yet, I charge Mrs.
Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby) with systematically
forcing Castor Oil on my innocent son, from the first hour of his
birth. When that medicine, in its efficient action, causes
internal disturbance to Augustus George, I charge Mrs. Prodgit
(aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby) with insanely and inconsistently
administering opium to allay the storm she has raised! What is the
meaning of this?

If the days of Egyptian Mummies are past, how dare Mrs. Prodgit
require, for the use of my son, an amount of flannel and linen that
would carpet my humble roof? Do I wonder that she requires it?
No! This morning, within an hour, I beheld this agonising sight.
I beheld my son - Augustus George - in Mrs. Prodgit's hands, and on
Mrs. Prodgit's knee, being dressed. He was at the moment,
comparatively speaking, in a state of nature; having nothing on,
but an extremely short shirt, remarkably disproportionate to the
length of his usual outer garments. Trailing from Mrs. Prodgit's
lap, on the floor, was a long narrow roller or bandage - I should
say of several yards in extent. In this, I SAW Mrs. Prodgit
tightly roll the body of my unoffending infant, turning him over
and over, now presenting his unconscious face upwards, now the back
of his bald head, until the unnatural feat was accomplished, and
the bandage secured by a pin, which I have every reason to believe
entered the body of my only child. In this tourniquet, he passes
the present phase of his existence. Can I know it, and smile!

I fear I have been betrayed into expressing myself warmly, but I
feel deeply. Not for myself; for Augustus George. I dare not
interfere. Will any one? Will any publication? Any doctor? Any
parent? Any body? I do not complain that Mrs. Prodgit (aided and
abetted by Mrs. Bigby) entirely alienates Maria Jane's affections
from me, and interposes an impassable barrier between us. I do not
complain of being made of no account. I do not want to be of any
account. But, Augustus George is a production of Nature (I cannot
think otherwise), and I claim that he should be treated with some
remote reference to Nature. In my opinion, Mrs. Prodgit is, from
first to last, a convention and a superstition. Are all the
faculty afraid of Mrs. Prodgit? If not, why don't they take her in
hand and improve her?

P.S. Maria Jane's Mama boasts of her own knowledge of the subject,
and says she brought up seven children besides Maria Jane. But how
do I know that she might not have brought them up much better?
Maria Jane herself is far from strong, and is subject to headaches,
and nervous indigestion. Besides which, I learn from the
statistical tables that one child in five dies within the first
year of its life; and one child in three, within the fifth. That
don't look as if we could never improve in these particulars, I
think!

P.P.S. Augustus George is in convulsions.

LYING AWAKE

'MY uncle lay with his eyes half closed, and his nightcap drawn
almost down to his nose. His fancy was already wandering, and
began to mingle up the present scene with the crater of Vesuvius,
the French Opera, the Coliseum at Rome, Dolly's Chop-house in
London, and all the farrago of noted places with which the brain of
a traveller is crammed; in a word, he was just falling asleep.'

Thus, that delightful writer, WASHINGTON IRVING, in his Tales of a
Traveller. But, it happened to me the other night to be lying: not
with my eyes half closed, but with my eyes wide open; not with my
nightcap drawn almost down to my nose, for on sanitary principles I
never wear a nightcap: but with my hair pitchforked and touzled all
over the pillow; not just falling asleep by any means, but
glaringly, persistently, and obstinately, broad awake. Perhaps,
with no scientific intention or invention, I was illustrating the
theory of the Duality of the Brain; perhaps one part of my brain,
being wakeful, sat up to watch the other part which was sleepy. Be
that as it may, something in me was as desirous to go to sleep as
it possibly could be, but something else in me WOULD NOT go to
sleep, and was as obstinate as George the Third.

Thinking of George the Third - for I devote this paper to my train
of thoughts as I lay awake: most people lying awake sometimes, and
having some interest in the subject - put me in mind of BENJAMIN
FRANKLIN, and so Benjamin Franklin's paper on the art of procuring
pleasant dreams, which would seem necessarily to include the art of
going to sleep, came into my head. Now, as I often used to read
that paper when I was a very small boy, and as I recollect
everything I read then as perfectly as I forget everything I read
now, I quoted 'Get out of bed, beat up and turn your pillow, shake
the bed-clothes well with at least twenty shakes, then throw the
bed open and leave it to cool; in the meanwhile, continuing
undrest, walk about your chamber. When you begin to feel the cold
air unpleasant, then return to your bed, and you will soon fall
asleep, and your sleep will be sweet and pleasant.'  Not a bit of
it! I performed the whole ceremony, and if it were possible for me
to be more saucer-eyed than I was before, that was the only result
that came of it.

Except Niagara. The two quotations from Washington Irving and
Benjamin Franklin may have put it in my head by an American
association of ideas; but there I was, and the Horse-shoe Fall was
thundering and tumbling in my eyes and ears, and the very rainbows
that I left upon the spray when I really did last look upon it,
were beautiful to see. The night-light being quite as plain,
however, and sleep seeming to be many thousand miles further off
than Niagara, I made up my mind to think a little about Sleep;
which I no sooner did than I whirled off in spite of myself to
Drury Lane Theatre, and there saw a great actor and dear friend of
mine (whom I had been thinking of in the day) playing Macbeth, and
heard him apostrophising 'the death of each day's life,' as I have
heard him many a time, in the days that are gone.

But, Sleep. I WILL think about Sleep. I am determined to think
(this is the way I went on) about Sleep. I must hold the word
Sleep, tight and fast, or I shall be off at a tangent in half a
second. I feel myself unaccountably straying, already, into Clare
Market. Sleep. It would be curious, as illustrating the equality
of sleep, to inquire how many of its phenomena are common to all
classes, to all degrees of wealth and poverty, to every grade of
education and ignorance. Here, for example, is her Majesty Queen
Victoria in her palace, this present blessed night, and here is
Winking Charley, a sturdy vagrant, in one of her Majesty's jails.
Her Majesty has fallen, many thousands of times, from that same
Tower, which I claim a right to tumble off now and then. So has
Winking Charley. Her Majesty in her sleep has opened or prorogued
Parliament, or has held a Drawing Room, attired in some very scanty
dress, the deficiencies and improprieties of which have caused her
great uneasiness. I, in my degree, have suffered unspeakable
agitation of mind from taking the chair at a public dinner at the
London Tavern in my night-clothes, which not all the courtesy of my
kind friend and host MR. BATHE could persuade me were quite adapted
to the occasion. Winking Charley has been repeatedly tried in a
worse condition. Her Majesty is no stranger to a vault or
firmament, of a sort of floorcloth, with an indistinct pattern
distantly resembling eyes, which occasionally obtrudes itself on
her repose. Neither am I. Neither is Winking Charley. It is
quite common to all three of us to skim along with airy strides a
little above the ground; also to hold, with the deepest interest,
dialogues with various people, all represented by ourselves; and to
be at our wit's end to know what they are going to tell us; and to
be indescribably astonished by the secrets they disclose. It is
probable that we have all three committed murders and hidden
bodies. It is pretty certain that we have all desperately wanted
to cry out, and have had no voice; that we have all gone to the
play and not been able to get in; that we have all dreamed much
more of our youth than of our later lives; that - I have lost it!
The thread's broken.

And up I go. I, lying here with the night-light before me, up I
go, for no reason on earth that I can find out, and drawn by no
links that are visible to me, up the Great Saint Bernard! I have
lived in Switzerland, and rambled among the mountains; but, why I
should go there now, and why up the Great Saint Bernard in
preference to any other mountain, I have no idea. As I lie here
broad awake, and with every sense so sharpened that I can
distinctly hear distant noises inaudible to me at another time, I
make that journey, as I really did, on the same summer day, with
the same happy party - ah! two since dead, I grieve to think - and
there is the same track, with the same black wooden arms to point
the way, and there are the same storm-refuges here and there; and
there is the same snow falling at the top, and there are the same
frosty mists, and there is the same intensely cold convent with its
menagerie smell, and the same breed of dogs fast dying out, and the
same breed of jolly young monks whom I mourn to know as humbugs,
and the same convent parlour with its piano and the sitting round
the fire, and the same supper, and the same lone night in a cell,
and the same bright fresh morning when going out into the highly
rarefied air was like a plunge into an icy bath. Now, see here
what comes along; and why does this thing stalk into my mind on the
top of a Swiss mountain!

It is a figure that I once saw, just after dark, chalked upon a
door in a little back lane near a country church - my first church.
How young a child I may have been at the time I don't know, but it
horrified me so intensely - in connexion with the churchyard, I
suppose, for it smokes a pipe, and has a big hat with each of its
ears sticking out in a horizontal line under the brim, and is not
in itself more oppressive than a mouth from ear to ear, a pair of
goggle eyes, and hands like two bunches of carrots, five in each,
can make it - that it is still vaguely alarming to me to recall (as
I have often done before, lying awake) the running home, the
looking behind, the horror, of its following me; though whether
disconnected from the door, or door and all, I can't say, and
perhaps never could. It lays a disagreeable train. I must resolve
to think of something on the voluntary principle.

The balloon ascents of this last season. They will do to think
about, while I lie awake, as well as anything else. I must hold
them tight though, for I feel them sliding away, and in their stead
are the Mannings, husband and wife, hanging on the top of Horse-
monger Lane Jail. In connexion with which dismal spectacle, I
recall this curious fantasy of the mind. That, having beheld that
execution, and having left those two forms dangling on the top of
the entrance gateway - the man's, a limp, loose suit of clothes as
if the man had gone out of them; the woman's, a fine shape, so
elaborately corseted and artfully dressed, that it was quite
unchanged in its trim appearance as it slowly swung from side to
side - I never could, by my uttermost efforts, for some weeks,
present the outside of that prison to myself (which the terrible
impression I had received continually obliged me to do) without
presenting it with the two figures still hanging in the morning
air. Until, strolling past the gloomy place one night, when the
street was deserted and quiet, and actually seeing that the bodies
were not there, my fancy was persuaded, as it were, to take them
down and bury them within the precincts of the jail, where they
have lain ever since.

The balloon ascents of last season. Let me reckon them up. There
were the horse, the bull, the parachute, - and the tumbler hanging
on - chiefly by his toes, I believe - below the car. Very wrong,
indeed, and decidedly to be stopped. But, in connexion with these
and similar dangerous exhibitions, it strikes me that that portion
of the public whom they entertain, is unjustly reproached. Their
pleasure is in the difficulty overcome. They are a public of great
faith, and are quite confident that the gentleman will not fall off
the horse, or the lady off the bull or out of the parachute, and
that the tumbler has a firm hold with his toes. They do not go to
see the adventurer vanquished, but triumphant. There is no
parallel in public combats between men and beasts, because nobody
can answer for the particular beast - unless it were always the
same beast, in which case it would be a mere stage-show, which the
same public would go in the same state of mind to see, entirely
believing in the brute being beforehand safely subdued by the man.
That they are not accustomed to calculate hazards and dangers with
any nicety, we may know from their rash exposure of themselves in
overcrowded steamboats, and unsafe conveyances and places of all
kinds. And I cannot help thinking that instead of railing, and
attributing savage motives to a people naturally well disposed and
humane, it is better to teach them, and lead them argumentatively
and reasonably - for they are very reasonable, if you will discuss
a matter with them - to more considerate and wise conclusions.

This is a disagreeable intrusion! Here is a man with his throat
cut, dashing towards me as I lie awake! A recollection of an old
story of a kinsman of mine, who, going home one foggy winter night
to Hampstead, when London was much smaller and the road lonesome,
suddenly encountered such a figure rushing past him, and presently
two keepers from a madhouse in pursuit. A very unpleasant creature
indeed, to come into my mind unbidden, as I lie awake.

- The balloon ascents of last season. I must return to the
balloons. Why did the bleeding man start out of them? Never mind;
if I inquire, he will be back again. The balloons. This
particular public have inherently a great pleasure in the
contemplation of physical difficulties overcome; mainly, as I take
it, because the lives of a large majority of them are exceedingly
monotonous and real, and further, are a struggle against continual
difficulties, and further still, because anything in the form of
accidental injury, or any kind of illness or disability is so very
serious in their own sphere. I will explain this seeming paradox
of mine. Take the case of a Christmas Pantomime. Surely nobody
supposes that the young mother in the pit who falls into fits of
laughter when the baby is boiled or sat upon, would be at all
diverted by such an occurrence off the stage. Nor is the decent
workman in the gallery, who is transported beyond the ignorant
present by the delight with which he sees a stout gentleman pushed
out of a two pair of stairs window, to be slandered by the
suspicion that he would be in the least entertained by such a
spectacle in any street in London, Paris, or New York. It always
appears to me that the secret of this enjoyment lies in the
temporary superiority to the common hazards and mischances of life;
in seeing casualties, attended when they really occur with bodily
and mental suffering, tears, and poverty, happen through a very
rough sort of poetry without the least harm being done to any one -
the pretence of distress in a pantomime being so broadly humorous
as to be no pretence at all. Much as in the comic fiction I can
understand the mother with a very vulnerable baby at home, greatly
relishing the invulnerable baby on the stage, so in the Cremorne
reality I can understand the mason who is always liable to fall off
a scaffold in his working jacket and to be carried to the hospital,
having an infinite admiration of the radiant personage in spangles
who goes into the clouds upon a bull, or upside down, and who, he
takes it for granted - not reflecting upon the thing - has, by
uncommon skill and dexterity, conquered such mischances as those to
which he and his acquaintance are continually exposed.

I wish the Morgue in Paris would not come here as I lie awake, with
its ghastly beds, and the swollen saturated clothes hanging up, and
the water dripping, dripping all day long, upon that other swollen
saturated something in the corner, like a heap of crushed over-ripe
figs that I have seen in Italy! And this detestable Morgue comes
back again at the head of a procession of forgotten ghost stories.
This will never do. I must think of something else as I lie awake;
or, like that sagacious animal in the United States who recognised
the colonel who was such a dead shot, I am a gone 'Coon. What
shall I think of? The late brutal assaults. Very good subject.
The late brutal assaults.

(Though whether, supposing I should see, here before me as I lie
awake, the awful phantom described in one of those ghost stories,
who, with a head-dress of shroud, was always seen looking in
through a certain glass door at a certain dead hour - whether, in
such a case it would be the least consolation to me to know on
philosophical grounds that it was merely my imagination, is a
question I can't help asking myself by the way.)

The late brutal assaults. I strongly question the expediency of
advocating the revival of whipping for those crimes. It is a
natural and generous impulse to be indignant at the perpetration of
inconceivable brutality, but I doubt the whipping panacea gravely.
Not in the least regard or pity for the criminal, whom I hold in
far lower estimation than a mad wolf, but in consideration for the
general tone and feeling, which is very much improved since the
whipping times. It is bad for a people to be familiarised with
such punishments. When the whip went out of Bridewell, and ceased
to be flourished at the carts tail and at the whipping-post, it
began to fade out of madhouses, and workhouses, and schools and
families, and to give place to a better system everywhere, than
cruel driving. It would be hasty, because a few brutes may be
inadequately punished, to revive, in any aspect, what, in so many
aspects, society is hardly yet happily rid of. The whip is a very
contagious kind of thing, and difficult to confine within one set
of bounds. Utterly abolish punishment by fine - a barbarous
device, quite as much out of date as wager by battle, but
particularly connected in the vulgar mind with this class of
offence - at least quadruple the term of imprisonment for
aggravated assaults - and above all let us, in such cases, have no
Pet Prisoning, vain glorifying, strong soup, and roasted meats, but
hard work, and one unchanging and uncompromising dietary of bread
and water, well or ill; and we shall do much better than by going
down into the dark to grope for the whip among the rusty fragments
of the rack, and the branding iron, and the chains and gibbet from
the public roads, and the weights that pressed men to death in the
cells of Newgate.

I had proceeded thus far, when I found I had been lying awake so
long that the very dead began to wake too, and to crowd into my
thoughts most sorrowfully. Therefore, I resolved to lie awake no
more, but to get up and go out for a night walk - which resolution
was an acceptable relief to me, as I dare say it may prove now to a
great many more.

THE GHOST OF ART

I AM a bachelor, residing in rather a dreary set of chambers in the
Temple. They are situated in a square court of high houses, which
would be a complete well, but for the want of water and the absence
of a bucket. I live at the top of the house, among the tiles and
sparrows. Like the little man in the nursery-story, I live by
myself, and all the bread and cheese I get - which is not much - I
put upon a shelf. I need scarcely add, perhaps, that I am in love,
and that the father of my charming Julia objects to our union.

I mention these little particulars as I might deliver a letter of
introduction. The reader is now acquainted with me, and perhaps
will condescend to listen to my narrative.

I am naturally of a dreamy turn of mind; and my abundant leisure -
for I am called to the Bar - coupled with much lonely listening to
the twittering of sparrows, and the pattering of rain, has
encouraged that disposition. In my 'top set' I hear the wind howl
on a winter night, when the man on the ground floor believes it is
perfectly still weather. The dim lamps with which our Honourable
Society (supposed to be as yet unconscious of the new discovery
called Gas) make the horrors of the staircase visible, deepen the
gloom which generally settles on my soul when I go home at night.

I am in the Law, but not of it. I can't exactly make out what it
means. I sit in Westminster Hall sometimes (in character) from ten
to four; and when I go out of Court, I don't know whether I am
standing on my wig or my boots.

It appears to me (I mention this in confidence) as if there were
too much talk and too much law - as if some grains of truth were
started overboard into a tempestuous sea of chaff.

All this may make me mystical. Still, I am confident that what I
am going to describe myself as having seen and heard, I actually
did see and hear.

It is necessary that I should observe that I have a great delight
in pictures. I am no painter myself, but I have studied pictures
and written about them. I have seen all the most famous pictures
in the world; my education and reading have been sufficiently
general to possess me beforehand with a knowledge of most of the
subjects to which a Painter is likely to have recourse; and,
although I might be in some doubt as to the rightful fashion of the
scabbard of King Lear's sword, for instance, I think I should know
King Lear tolerably well, if I happened to meet with him.

I go to all the Modern Exhibitions every season, and of course I
revere the Royal Academy. I stand by its forty Academical articles
almost as firmly as I stand by the thirty-nine Articles of the
Church of England. I am convinced that in neither case could there
be, by any rightful possibility, one article more or less.

It is now exactly three years - three years ago, this very month -
since I went from Westminster to the Temple, one Thursday
afternoon, in a cheap steamboat. The sky was black, when I
imprudently walked on board. It began to thunder and lighten
immediately afterwards, and the rain poured down in torrents. The
deck seeming to smoke with the wet, I went below; but so many
passengers were there, smoking too, that I came up again, and
buttoning my pea-coat, and standing in the shadow of the paddle-
box, stood as upright as I could, and made the best of it.

It was at this moment that I first beheld the terrible Being, who
is the subject of my present recollections.

Standing against the funnel, apparently with the intention of
drying himself by the heat as fast as he got wet, was a shabby man
in threadbare black, and with his hands in his pockets, who
fascinated me from the memorable instant when I caught his eye.

Where had I caught that eye before? Who was he? Why did I connect
him, all at once, with the Vicar of Wakefield, Alfred the Great,
Gil Blas, Charles the Second, Joseph and his Brethren, the Fairy
Queen, Tom Jones, the Decameron of Boccaccio, Tam O'Shanter, the
Marriage of the Doge of Venice with the Adriatic, and the Great
Plague of London? Why, when he bent one leg, and placed one hand
upon the back of the seat near him, did my mind associate him
wildly with the words, 'Number one hundred and forty-two, Portrait
of a gentleman'? Could it be that I was going mad?

I looked at him again, and now I could have taken my affidavit that
he belonged to the Vicar of Wakefield's family. Whether he was the
Vicar, or Moses, or Mr. Burchill, or the Squire, or a
conglomeration of all four, I knew not; but I was impelled to seize
him by the throat, and charge him with being, in some fell way,
connected with the Primrose blood. He looked up at the rain, and
then - oh Heaven! - he became Saint John. He folded his arms,
resigning himself to the weather, and I was frantically inclined to
address him as the Spectator, and firmly demand to know what he had
done with Sir Roger de Coverley.

The frightful suspicion that I was becoming deranged, returned upon
me with redoubled force. Meantime, this awful stranger,
inexplicably linked to my distress, stood drying himself at the
funnel; and ever, as the steam rose from his clothes, diffusing a
mist around him, I saw through the ghostly medium all the people I
have mentioned, and a score more, sacred and profane.

I am conscious of a dreadful inclination that stole upon me, as it
thundered and lightened, to grapple with this man, or demon, and
plunge him over the side. But, I constrained myself - I know not
how - to speak to him, and in a pause of the storm, I crossed the
deck, and said:

'What are you?'

He replied, hoarsely, 'A Model.'

'A what?' said I.

'A Model,' he replied. 'I sets to the profession for a bob a-
hour.'  (All through this narrative I give his own words, which are
indelibly imprinted on my memory.)

The relief which this disclosure gave me, the exquisite delight of
the restoration of my confidence in my own sanity, I cannot
describe. I should have fallen on his neck, but for the
consciousness of being observed by the man at the wheel.

'You then,' said I, shaking him so warmly by the hand, that I wrung
the rain out of his coat-cuff, 'are the gentleman whom I have so
frequently contemplated, in connection with a high-backed chair
with a red cushion, and a table with twisted legs.'

'I am that Model,' he rejoined moodily, 'and I wish I was anything
else.'

'Say not so,' I returned. 'I have seen you in the society of many
beautiful young women;' as in truth I had, and always (I now
remember) in the act of making the most of his legs.

'No doubt,' said he. 'And you've seen me along with warses of
flowers, and any number of table-kivers, and antique cabinets, and
warious gammon.'

'Sir?' said I.

'And warious gammon,' he repeated, in a louder voice. 'You might
have seen me in armour, too, if you had looked sharp. Blessed if I
ha'n't stood in half the suits of armour as ever came out of
Pratt's shop: and sat, for weeks together, a-eating nothing, out of
half the gold and silver dishes as has ever been lent for the
purpose out of Storrses, and Mortimerses, or Garrardses, and
Davenportseseses.'

Excited, as it appeared, by a sense of injury, I thought he would
never have found an end for the last word. But, at length it
rolled sullenly away with the thunder.

'Pardon me,' said I, 'you are a well-favoured, well-made man, and
yet - forgive me - I find, on examining my mind, that I associate
you with - that my recollection indistinctly makes you, in short -
excuse me - a kind of powerful monster.'

'It would be a wonder if it didn't,' he said. 'Do you know what my
points are?'

'No,' said I.

'My throat and my legs,' said he. 'When I don't set for a head, I
mostly sets for a throat and a pair of legs. Now, granted you was
a painter, and was to work at my throat for a week together, I
suppose you'd see a lot of lumps and bumps there, that would never
be there at all, if you looked at me, complete, instead of only my
throat. Wouldn't you?'

'Probably,' said I, surveying him.

'Why, it stands to reason,' said the Model. 'Work another week at
my legs, and it'll be the same thing. You'll make 'em out as
knotty and as knobby, at last, as if they was the trunks of two old
trees. Then, take and stick my legs and throat on to another man's
body, and you'll make a reg'lar monster. And that's the way the
public gets their reg'lar monsters, every first Monday in May, when
the Royal Academy Exhibition opens.'

'You are a critic,' said I, with an air of deference.

'I'm in an uncommon ill humour, if that's it,' rejoined the Model,
with great indignation. 'As if it warn't bad enough for a bob a-
hour, for a man to be mixing himself up with that there jolly old
furniter that one 'ud think the public know'd the wery nails in by
this time - or to be putting on greasy old 'ats and cloaks, and
playing tambourines in the Bay o' Naples, with Wesuvius a smokin'
according to pattern in the background, and the wines a bearing
wonderful in the middle distance - or to be unpolitely kicking up
his legs among a lot o' gals, with no reason whatever in his mind
but to show 'em - as if this warn't bad enough, I'm to go and be
thrown out of employment too!'

'Surely no!' said I.

'Surely yes,' said the indignant Model. 'BUT I'LL GROW ONE.'

The gloomy and threatening manner in which he muttered the last
words, can never be effaced from my remembrance. My blood ran
cold.

I asked of myself, what was it that this desperate Being was
resolved to grow. My breast made no response.

I ventured to implore him to explain his meaning. With a scornful
laugh, he uttered this dark prophecy:

'I'LL GROW ONE. AND, MARK MY WORDS, IT SHALL HAUNT YOU!'

We parted in the storm, after I had forced half-a-crown on his
acceptance, with a trembling hand. I conclude that something
supernatural happened to the steamboat, as it bore his reeking
figure down the river; but it never got into the papers.

Two years elapsed, during which I followed my profession without
any vicissitudes; never holding so much as a motion, of course. At
the expiration of that period, I found myself making my way home to
the Temple, one night, in precisely such another storm of thunder
and lightning as that by which I had been overtaken on board the
steamboat - except that this storm, bursting over the town at
midnight, was rendered much more awful by the darkness and the
hour.

As I turned into my court, I really thought a thunderbolt would
fall, and plough the pavement up. Every brick and stone in the
place seemed to have an echo of its own for the thunder. The
waterspouts were overcharged, and the rain came tearing down from
the house-tops as if they had been mountain-tops.

Mrs. Parkins, my laundress - wife of Parkins the porter, then newly
dead of a dropsy - had particular instructions to place a bedroom
candle and a match under the staircase lamp on my landing, in order
that I might light my candle there, whenever I came home. Mrs.
Parkins invariably disregarding all instructions, they were never
there. Thus it happened that on this occasion I groped my way into
my sitting-room to find the candle, and came out to light it.

What were my emotions when, underneath the staircase lamp, shining
with wet as if he had never been dry since our last meeting, stood
the mysterious Being whom I had encountered on the steamboat in a
thunderstorm, two years before! His prediction rushed upon my
mind, and I turned faint.

'I said I'd do it,' he observed, in a hollow voice, 'and I have
done it. May I come in?'

'Misguided creature, what have you done?' I returned.

'I'll let you know,' was his reply, 'if you'll let me in.'

Could it be murder that he had done? And had he been so successful
that he wanted to do it again, at my expense?

I hesitated.

'May I come in?' said he.

I inclined my head, with as much presence of mind as I could
command, and he followed me into my chambers. There, I saw that
the lower part of his face was tied up, in what is commonly called
a Belcher handkerchief. He slowly removed this bandage, and
exposed to view a long dark beard, curling over his upper lip,
twisting about the corners of his mouth, and hanging down upon his
breast.

'What is this?' I exclaimed involuntarily, 'and what have you
become?'

'I am the Ghost of Art!' said he.

The effect of these words, slowly uttered in the thunder-storm at
midnight, was appalling in the last degree. More dead than alive,
I surveyed him in silence.

'The German taste came up,' said he, 'and threw me out of bread. I
am ready for the taste now.'

He made his beard a little jagged with his hands, folded his arms,
and said,

'Severity!'

I shuddered. It was so severe.

He made his beard flowing on his breast, and, leaning both hands on
the staff of a carpet-broom which Mrs. Parkins had left among my
books, said:

'Benevolence.'

I stood transfixed. The change of sentiment was entirely in the
beard. The man might have left his face alone, or had no face.

The beard did everything.

He lay down, on his back, on my table, and with that action of his
head threw up his beard at the chin.

'That's death!' said he.

He got off my table and, looking up at the ceiling, cocked his
beard a little awry; at the same time making it stick out before
him.

'Adoration, or a vow of vengeance,' he observed.

He turned his profile to me, making his upper lip very bulky with
the upper part of his beard.

'Romantic character,' said he.

He looked sideways out of his beard, as if it were an ivy-bush.
'Jealousy,' said he. He gave it an ingenious twist in the air, and
informed me that he was carousing. He made it shaggy with his
fingers - and it was Despair; lank - and it was avarice: tossed it
all kinds of ways - and it was rage. The beard did everything.

'I am the Ghost of Art,' said he. 'Two bob a-day now, and more
when it's longer! Hair's the true expression. There is no other.
I SAID I'D GROW IT, AND I'VE GROWN IT, AND IT SHALL HAUNT YOU!'

He may have tumbled down-stairs in the dark, but he never walked
down or ran down. I looked over the banisters, and I was alone
with the thunder.

Need I add more of my terrific fate? IT HAS haunted me ever since.
It glares upon me from the walls of the Royal Academy, (except when
MACLISE subdues it to his genius,) it fills my soul with terror at
the British Institution, it lures young artists on to their
destruction. Go where I will, the Ghost of Art, eternally working
the passions in hair, and expressing everything by beard, pursues
me. The prediction is accomplished, and the victim has no rest.

OUT OF TOWN

SITTING, on a bright September morning, among my books and papers
at my open window on the cliff overhanging the sea-beach, I have
the sky and ocean framed before me like a beautiful picture. A
beautiful picture, but with such movement in it, such changes of
light upon the sails of ships and wake of steamboats, such dazzling
gleams of silver far out at sea, such fresh touches on the crisp
wave-tops as they break and roll towards me - a picture with such
music in the billowy rush upon the shingle, the blowing of morning
wind through the corn-sheaves where the farmers' waggons are busy,
the singing of the larks, and the distant voices of children at
play - such charms of sight and sound as all the Galleries on earth
can but poorly suggest.

So dreamy is the murmur of the sea below my window, that I may have
been here, for anything I know, one hundred years. Not that I have
grown old, for, daily on the neighbouring downs and grassy hill-
sides, I find that I can still in reason walk any distance, jump
over anything, and climb up anywhere; but, that the sound of the
ocean seems to have become so customary to my musings, and other
realities seem so to have gone aboard ship and floated away over
the horizon, that, for aught I will undertake to the contrary, I am
the enchanted son of the King my father, shut up in a tower on the
sea-shore, for protection against an old she-goblin who insisted on
being my godmother, and who foresaw at the font - wonderful
creature! - that I should get into a scrape before I was twenty-
one. I remember to have been in a City (my Royal parent's
dominions, I suppose), and apparently not long ago either, that was
in the dreariest condition. The principal inhabitants had all been
changed into old newspapers, and in that form were preserving their
window-blinds from dust, and wrapping all their smaller household
gods in curl-papers. I walked through gloomy streets where every
house was shut up and newspapered, and where my solitary footsteps
echoed on the deserted pavements. In the public rides there were
no carriages, no horses, no animated existence, but a few sleepy
policemen, and a few adventurous boys taking advantage of the
devastation to swarm up the lamp-posts. In the Westward streets
there was no traffic; in the Westward shops, no business. The
water-patterns which the 'Prentices had trickled out on the
pavements early in the morning, remained uneffaced by human feet.
At the corners of mews, Cochin-China fowls stalked gaunt and
savage; nobody being left in the deserted city (as it appeared to
me), to feed them. Public Houses, where splendid footmen swinging
their legs over gorgeous hammer-cloths beside wigged coachmen were
wont to regale, were silent, and the unused pewter pots shone, too
bright for business, on the shelves. I beheld a Punch's Show
leaning against a wall near Park Lane, as if it had fainted. It
was deserted, and there were none to heed its desolation. In
Belgrave Square I met the last man - an ostler - sitting on a post
in a ragged red waistcoat, eating straw, and mildewing away.

If I recollect the name of the little town, on whose shore this sea
is murmuring - but I am not just now, as I have premised, to be
relied upon for anything - it is Pavilionstone. Within a quarter
of a century, it was a little fishing town, and they do say, that
the time was, when it was a little smuggling town. I have heard
that it was rather famous in the hollands and brandy way, and that
coevally with that reputation the lamplighter's was considered a
bad life at the Assurance Offices. It was observed that if he were
not particular about lighting up, he lived in peace; but that, if
he made the best of the oil-lamps in the steep and narrow streets,
he usually fell over the cliff at an early age. Now, gas and
electricity run to the very water's edge, and the South-Eastern
Railway Company screech at us in the dead of night.

But, the old little fishing and smuggling town remains, and is so
tempting a place for the latter purpose, that I think of going out
some night next week, in a fur cap and a pair of petticoat
trousers, and running an empty tub, as a kind of archaeological
pursuit. Let nobody with corns come to Pavilionstone, for there
are breakneck flights of ragged steps, connecting the principal
streets by back-ways, which will cripple that visitor in half an
hour. These are the ways by which, when I run that tub, I shall
escape. I shall make a Thermopylae of the corner of one of them,
defend it with my cutlass against the coast-guard until my brave
companions have sheered off, then dive into the darkness, and
regain my Susan's arms. In connection with these breakneck steps I
observe some wooden cottages, with tumble-down out-houses, and
back-yards three feet square, adorned with garlands of dried fish,
in one of which (though the General Board of Health might object)
my Susan dwells.

The South-Eastern Company have brought Pavilionstone into such
vogue, with their tidal trains and splendid steam-packets, that a
new Pavilionstone is rising up. I am, myself, of New
Pavilionstone. We are a little mortary and limey at present, but
we are getting on capitally. Indeed, we were getting on so fast,
at one time, that we rather overdid it, and built a street of
shops, the business of which may be expected to arrive in about ten
years. We are sensibly laid out in general; and with a little care
and pains (by no means wanting, so far), shall become a very pretty
place. We ought to be, for our situation is delightful, our air is
delicious, and our breezy hills and downs, carpeted with wild
thyme, and decorated with millions of wild flowers, are, on the
faith of a pedestrian, perfect. In New Pavilionstone we are a
little too much addicted to small windows with more bricks in them
than glass, and we are not over-fanciful in the way of decorative
architecture, and we get unexpected sea-views through cracks in the
street doors; on the whole, however, we are very snug and
comfortable, and well accommodated. But the Home Secretary (if
there be such an officer) cannot too soon shut up the burial-ground
of the old parish church. It is in the midst of us, and
Pavilionstone will get no good of it, if it be too long left alone.

The lion of Pavilionstone is its Great Hotel. A dozen years ago,
going over to Paris by South-Eastern Tidal Steamer, you used to be
dropped upon the platform of the main line Pavilionstone Station
(not a junction then), at eleven o'clock on a dark winter's night,
in a roaring wind; and in the howling wilderness outside the
station, was a short omnibus which brought you up by the forehead
the instant you got in at the door; and nobody cared about you, and
you were alone in the world. You bumped over infinite chalk, until
you were turned out at a strange building which had just left off
being a barn without having quite begun to be a house, where nobody
expected your coming, or knew what to do with you when you were
come, and where you were usually blown about, until you happened to
be blown against the cold beef, and finally into bed. At five in
the morning you were blown out of bed, and after a dreary
breakfast, with crumpled company, in the midst of confusion, were
hustled on board a steamboat and lay wretched on deck until you saw
France lunging and surging at you with great vehemence over the
bowsprit.

Now, you come down to Pavilionstone in a free and easy manner, an
irresponsible agent, made over in trust to the South-Eastern
Company, until you get out of the railway-carriage at high-water
mark. If you are crossing by the boat at once, you have nothing to
do but walk on board and be happy there if you can - I can't. If
you are going to our Great Pavilionstone Hotel, the sprightliest
porters under the sun, whose cheerful looks are a pleasant welcome,
shoulder your luggage, drive it off in vans, bowl it away in
trucks, and enjoy themselves in playing athletic games with it. If
you are for public life at our great Pavilionstone Hotel, you walk
into that establishment as if it were your club; and find ready for
you, your news-room, dining-room, smoking-room, billiard-room,
music-room, public breakfast, public dinner twice a-day (one plain,
one gorgeous), hot baths and cold baths. If you want to be bored,
there are plenty of bores always ready for you, and from Saturday
to Monday in particular, you can be bored (if you like it) through
and through. Should you want to be private at our Great
Pavilionstone Hotel, say but the word, look at the list of charges,
choose your floor, name your figure - there you are, established in
your castle, by the day, week, month, or year, innocent of all
comers or goers, unless you have my fancy for walking early in the
morning down the groves of boots and shoes, which so regularly
flourish at all the chamber-doors before breakfast, that it seems
to me as if nobody ever got up or took them in. Are you going
across the Alps, and would you like to air your Italian at our
Great Pavilionstone Hotel? Talk to the Manager - always
conversational, accomplished, and polite. Do you want to be aided,
abetted, comforted, or advised, at our Great Pavilionstone Hotel?
Send for the good landlord, and he is your friend. Should you, or
any one belonging to you, ever be taken ill at our Great
Pavilionstone Hotel, you will not soon forget him or his kind wife.
And when you pay your bill at our Great Pavilionstone Hotel, you
will not be put out of humour by anything you find in it.

A thoroughly good inn, in the days of coaching and posting, was a
noble place. But no such inn would have been equal to the
reception of four or five hundred people, all of them wet through,
and half of them dead sick, every day in the year. This is where
we shine, in our Pavilionstone Hotel. Again - who, coming and
going, pitching and tossing, boating and training, hurrying in, and
flying out, could ever have calculated the fees to be paid at an
old-fashioned house? In our Pavilionstone Hotel vocabulary, there
is no such word as fee. Everything is done for you; every service
is provided at a fixed and reasonable charge; all the prices are
hung up in all the rooms; and you can make out your own bill
beforehand, as well as the book-keeper.

In the case of your being a pictorial artist, desirous of studying
at small expense the physiognomies and beards of different nations,
come, on receipt of this, to Pavilionstone. You shall find all the
nations of the earth, and all the styles of shaving and not
shaving, hair cutting and hair letting alone, for ever flowing
through our hotel. Couriers you shall see by hundreds; fat
leathern bags for five-franc pieces, closing with violent snaps,
like discharges of fire-arms, by thousands; more luggage in a
morning than, fifty years ago, all Europe saw in a week. Looking
at trains, steamboats, sick travellers, and luggage, is our great
Pavilionstone recreation. We are not strong in other public
amusements. We have a Literary and Scientific Institution, and we
have a Working Men's Institution - may it hold many gipsy holidays
in summer fields, with the kettle boiling, the band of music
playing, and the people dancing; and may I be on the hill-side,
looking on with pleasure at a wholesome sight too rare in England!
- and we have two or three churches, and more chapels than I have
yet added up. But public amusements are scarce with us. If a poor
theatrical manager comes with his company to give us, in a loft,
Mary Bax, or the Murder on the Sand Hills, we don't care much for
him - starve him out, in fact. We take more kindly to wax-work,
especially if it moves; in which case it keeps much clearer of the
second commandment than when it is still. Cooke's Circus (Mr.
Cooke is my friend, and always leaves a good name behind him) gives
us only a night in passing through. Nor does the travelling
menagerie think us worth a longer visit. It gave us a look-in the
other day, bringing with it the residentiary van with the stained
glass windows, which Her Majesty kept ready-made at Windsor Castle,
until she found a suitable opportunity of submitting it for the
proprietor's acceptance. I brought away five wonderments from this
exhibition. I have wondered ever since, Whether the beasts ever do
get used to those small places of confinement; Whether the monkeys
have that very horrible flavour in their free state; Whether wild
animals have a natural ear for time and tune, and therefore every
four-footed creature began to howl in despair when the band began
to play; What the giraffe does with his neck when his cart is shut
up; and, Whether the elephant feels ashamed of himself when he is
brought out of his den to stand on his head in the presence of the
whole Collection.

We are a tidal harbour at Pavilionstone, as indeed I have implied
already in my mention of tidal trains. At low water, we are a heap
of mud, with an empty channel in it where a couple of men in big
boots always shovel and scoop: with what exact object, I am unable
to say. At that time, all the stranded fishing-boats turn over on
their sides, as if they were dead marine monsters; the colliers and
other shipping stick disconsolate in the mud; the steamers look as
if their white chimneys would never smoke more, and their red
paddles never turn again; the green sea-slime and weed upon the
rough stones at the entrance, seem records of obsolete high tides
never more to flow; the flagstaff-halyards droop; the very little
wooden lighthouse shrinks in the idle glare of the sun. And here I
may observe of the very little wooden lighthouse, that when it is
lighted at night, - red and green, - it looks so like a medical
man's, that several distracted husbands have at various times been
found, on occasions of premature domestic anxiety, going round and
round it, trying to find the Nightbell.

But, the moment the tide begins to make, the Pavilionstone Harbour
begins to revive. It feels the breeze of the rising water before
the water comes, and begins to flutter and stir. When the little
shallow waves creep in, barely overlapping one another, the vanes
at the mastheads wake, and become agitated. As the tide rises, the
fishing-boats get into good spirits and dance, the flagstaff hoists
a bright red flag, the steamboat smokes, cranes creak, horses and
carriages dangle in the air, stray passengers and luggage appear.
Now, the shipping is afloat, and comes up buoyantly, to look at the
wharf. Now, the carts that have come down for coals, load away as
hard as they can load. Now, the steamer smokes immensely, and
occasionally blows at the paddle-boxes like a vaporous whale-
greatly disturbing nervous loungers. Now, both the tide and the
breeze have risen, and you are holding your hat on (if you want to
see how the ladies hold THEIR hats on, with a stay, passing over
the broad brim and down the nose, come to Pavilionstone). Now,
everything in the harbour splashes, dashes, and bobs. Now, the
Down Tidal Train is telegraphed, and you know (without knowing how
you know), that two hundred and eighty-seven people are coming.
Now, the fishing-boats that have been out, sail in at the top of
the tide. Now, the bell goes, and the locomotive hisses and
shrieks, and the train comes gliding in, and the two hundred and
eighty-seven come scuffling out. Now, there is not only a tide of
water, but a tide of people, and a tide of luggage - all tumbling
and flowing and bouncing about together. Now, after infinite
bustle, the steamer steams out, and we (on the Pier) are all
delighted when she rolls as if she would roll her funnel out, and
all are disappointed when she don't. Now, the other steamer is
coming in, and the Custom House prepares, and the wharf-labourers
assemble, and the hawsers are made ready, and the Hotel Porters
come rattling down with van and truck, eager to begin more Olympic
games with more luggage. And this is the way in which we go on,
down at Pavilionstone, every tide. And, if you want to live a life
of luggage, or to see it lived, or to breathe sweet air which will
send you to sleep at a moment's notice at any period of the day or
night, or to disport yourself upon or in the sea, or to scamper
about Kent, or to come out of town for the enjoyment of all or any
of these pleasures, come to Pavilionstone.

OUT OF THE  SEASON

IT fell to my lot, this last bleak Spring, to find myself in a
watering-place out of the Season. A vicious north-east squall blew
me into it from foreign parts, and I tarried in it alone for three
days, resolved to be exceedingly busy.

On the first day, I began business by looking for two hours at the
sea, and staring the Foreign Militia out of countenance. Having
disposed of these important engagements, I sat down at one of the
two windows of my room, intent on doing something desperate in the
way of literary composition, and writing a chapter of unheard-of
excellence - with which the present essay has no connexion.

It is a remarkable quality in a watering-place out of the season,
that everything in it, will and must be looked at. I had no
previous suspicion of this fatal truth but, the moment I sat down
to write, I began to perceive it. I had scarcely fallen into my
most promising attitude, and dipped my pen in the ink, when I found
the clock upon the pier - a red-faced clock with a white rim -
importuning me in a highly vexatious manner to consult my watch,
and see how I was off for Greenwich time. Having no intention of
making a voyage or taking an observation, I had not the least need
of Greenwich time, and could have put up with watering-place time
as a sufficiently accurate article. The pier-clock, however,
persisting, I felt it necessary to lay down my pen, compare my
watch with him, and fall into a grave solicitude about half-
seconds. I had taken up my pen again, and was about to commence
that valuable chapter, when a Custom-house cutter under the window
requested that I would hold a naval review of her, immediately.

It was impossible, under the circumstances, for any mental
resolution, merely human, to dismiss the Custom-house cutter,
because the shadow of her topmast fell upon my paper, and the vane
played on the masterly blank chapter. I was therefore under the
necessity of going to the other window; sitting astride of the
chair there, like Napoleon bivouacking in the print; and inspecting
the cutter as she lay, all that day, in the way of my chapter, O!
She was rigged to carry a quantity of canvas, but her hull was so
very small that four giants aboard of her (three men and a boy) who
were vigilantly scraping at her, all together, inspired me with a
terror lest they should scrape her away. A fifth giant, who
appeared to consider himself 'below' - as indeed he was, from the
waist downwards - meditated, in such close proximity with the
little gusty chimney-pipe, that he seemed to be smoking it.
Several boys looked on from the wharf, and, when the gigantic
attention appeared to be fully occupied, one or other of these
would furtively swing himself in mid-air over the Custom-house
cutter, by means of a line pendant from her rigging, like a young
spirit of the storm. Presently, a sixth hand brought down two
little water-casks; presently afterwards, a truck came, and
delivered a hamper. I was now under an obligation to consider that
the cutter was going on a cruise, and to wonder where she was
going, and when she was going, and why she was going, and at what
date she might be expected back, and who commanded her? With these
pressing questions I was fully occupied when the Packet, making
ready to go across, and blowing off her spare steam, roared, 'Look
at me!'

It became a positive duty to look at the Packet preparing to go
across; aboard of which, the people newly come down by the rail-
road were hurrying in a great fluster. The crew had got their
tarry overalls on - and one knew what THAT meant - not to mention
the white basins, ranged in neat little piles of a dozen each,
behind the door of the after-cabin. One lady as I looked, one
resigning and far-seeing woman, took her basin from the store of
crockery, as she might have taken a refreshment-ticket, laid
herself down on deck with that utensil at her ear, muffled her feet
in one shawl, solemnly covered her countenance after the antique
manner with another, and on the completion of these preparations
appeared by the strength of her volition to become insensible. The
mail-bags (O that I myself had the sea-legs of a mail-bag!) were
tumbled aboard; the Packet left off roaring, warped out, and made
at the white line upon the bar. One dip, one roll, one break of
the sea over her bows, and Moore's Almanack or the sage Raphael
could not have told me more of the state of things aboard, than I
knew.

The famous chapter was all but begun now, and would have been quite
begun, but for the wind. It was blowing stiffly from the east, and
it rumbled in the chimney and shook the house. That was not much;
but, looking out into the wind's grey eye for inspiration, I laid
down my pen again to make the remark to myself, how emphatically
everything by the sea declares that it has a great concern in the
state of the wind. The trees blown all one way; the defences of
the harbour reared highest and strongest against the raging point;
the shingle flung up on the beach from the same direction; the
number of arrows pointed at the common enemy; the sea tumbling in
and rushing towards them as if it were inflamed by the sight. This
put it in my head that I really ought to go out and take a walk in
the wind; so, I gave up the magnificent chapter for that day,
entirely persuading myself that I was under a moral obligation to
have a blow.

I had a good one, and that on the high road - the very high road -
on the top of the cliffs, where I met the stage-coach with all the
outsides holding their hats on and themselves too, and overtook a
flock of sheep with the wool about their necks blown into such
great ruffs that they looked like fleecy owls. The wind played
upon the lighthouse as if it were a great whistle, the spray was
driven over the sea in a cloud of haze, the ships rolled and
pitched heavily, and at intervals long slants and flaws of light
made mountain-steeps of communication between the ocean and the
sky. A walk of ten miles brought me to a seaside town without a
cliff, which, like the town I had come from, was out of the season
too. Half of the houses were shut up; half of the other half were
to let; the town might have done as much business as it was doing
then, if it had been at the bottom of the sea. Nobody seemed to
flourish save the attorney; his clerk's pen was going in the bow-
window of his wooden house; his brass door-plate alone was free
from salt, and had been polished up that morning. On the beach,
among the rough buggers and capstans, groups of storm-beaten
boatmen, like a sort of marine monsters, watched under the lee of
those objects, or stood leaning forward against the wind, looking
out through battered spy-glasses. The parlour bell in the Admiral
Benbow had grown so flat with being out of the season, that neither
could I hear it ring when I pulled the handle for lunch, nor could
the young woman in black stockings and strong shoes, who acted as
waiter out of the season, until it had been tinkled three times.

Admiral Benbow's cheese was out of the season, but his home-made
bread was good, and his beer was perfect. Deluded by some earlier
spring day which had been warm and sunny, the Admiral had cleared
the firing out of his parlour stove, and had put some flower-pots
in - which was amiable and hopeful in the Admiral, but not
judicious: the room being, at that present visiting, transcendantly
cold. I therefore took the liberty of peeping out across a little
stone passage into the Admiral's kitchen, and, seeing a high settle
with its back towards me drawn out in front of the Admiral's
kitchen fire, I strolled in, bread and cheese in hand, munching and
looking about. One landsman and two boatmen were seated on the
settle, smoking pipes and drinking beer out of thick pint crockery
mugs - mugs peculiar to such places, with parti-coloured rings
round them, and ornaments between the rings like frayed-out roots.
The landsman was relating his experience, as yet only three nights
old, of a fearful running-down case in the Channel, and therein
presented to my imagination a sound of music that it will not soon
forget.

'At that identical moment of time,' said he (he was a prosy man by
nature, who rose with his subject), 'the night being light and
calm, but with a grey mist upon the water that didn't seem to
spread for more than two or three mile, I was walking up and down
the wooden causeway next the pier, off where it happened, along
with a friend of mine, which his name is Mr. Clocker. Mr. Clocker
is a grocer over yonder.'  (From the direction in which he pointed
the bowl of his pipe, I might have judged Mr. Clocker to be a
merman, established in the grocery trade in five-and-twenty fathoms
of water.)  'We were smoking our pipes, and walking up and down the
causeway, talking of one thing and talking of another. We were
quite alone there, except that a few hovellers' (the Kentish name
for 'long-shore boatmen like his companions) 'were hanging about
their lugs, waiting while the tide made, as hovellers will.'  (One
of the two boatmen, thoughtfully regarding me, shut up one eye;
this I understood to mean: first, that he took me into the
conversation: secondly, that he confirmed the proposition: thirdly,
that he announced himself as a hoveller.)  'All of a sudden Mr.
Clocker and me stood rooted to the spot, by hearing a sound come
through the stillness, right over the sea, LIKE A GREAT SORROWFUL
FLUTE OR AEOLIAN HARP. We didn't in the least know what it was,
and judge of our surprise when we saw the hovellers, to a man, leap
into the boats and tear about to hoist sail and get off, as if they
had every one of 'em gone, in a moment, raving mad! But THEY knew
it was the cry of distress from the sinking emigrant ship.'

When I got back to my watering-place out of the season, and had
done my twenty miles in good style, I found that the celebrated
Black Mesmerist intended favouring the public that evening in the
Hall of the Muses, which he had engaged for the purpose. After a
good dinner, seated by the fire in an easy chair, I began to waver
in a design I had formed of waiting on the Black Mesmerist, and to
incline towards the expediency of remaining where I was. Indeed a
point of gallantry was involved in my doing so, inasmuch as I had
not left France alone, but had come from the prisons of St. Pelagie
with my distinguished and unfortunate friend Madame Roland (in two
volumes which I bought for two francs each, at the book-stall in
the Place de la Concorde, Paris, at the corner of the Rue Royale).
Deciding to pass the evening tete-a-tete with Madame Roland, I
derived, as I always do, great pleasure from that spiritual woman's
society, and the charms of her brave soul and engaging
conversation. I must confess that if she had only some more
faults, only a few more passionate failings of any kind, I might
love her better; but I am content to believe that the deficiency is
in me, and not in her. We spent some sadly interesting hours
together on this occasion, and she told me again of her cruel
discharge from the Abbaye, and of her being re-arrested before her
free feet had sprung lightly up half-a-dozen steps of her own
staircase, and carried off to the prison which she only left for
the guillotine.

Madame Roland and I took leave of one another before mid-night, and
I went to bed full of vast intentions for next day, in connexion
with the unparalleled chapter. To hear the foreign mail-steamers
coming in at dawn of day, and to know that I was not aboard or
obliged to get up, was very comfortable; so, I rose for the chapter
in great force.

I had advanced so far as to sit down at my window again on my
second morning, and to write the first half-line of the chapter and
strike it out, not liking it, when my conscience reproached me with
not having surveyed the watering-place out of the season, after
all, yesterday, but with having gone straight out of it at the rate
of four miles and a half an hour. Obviously the best amends that I
could make for this remissness was to go and look at it without
another moment's delay. So - altogether as a matter of duty - I
gave up the magnificent chapter for another day, and sauntered out
with my hands in my pockets.

All the houses and lodgings ever let to visitors, were to let that
morning. It seemed to have snowed bills with To Let upon them.
This put me upon thinking what the owners of all those apartments
did, out of the season; how they employed their time, and occupied
their minds. They could not be always going to the Methodist
chapels, of which I passed one every other minute. They must have
some other recreation. Whether they pretended to take one
another's lodgings, and opened one another's tea-caddies in fun?
Whether they cut slices off their own beef and mutton, and made
believe that it belonged to somebody else? Whether they played
little dramas of life, as children do, and said, 'I ought to come
and look at your apartments, and you ought to ask two guineas a-
week too much, and then I ought to say I must have the rest of the
day to think of it, and then you ought to say that another lady and
gentleman with no children in family had made an offer very close
to your own terms, and you had passed your word to give them a
positive answer in half an hour, and indeed were just going to take
the bill down when you heard the knock, and then I ought to take
them, you know?'  Twenty such speculations engaged my thoughts.
Then, after passing, still clinging to the walls, defaced rags of
the bills of last year's Circus, I came to a back field near a
timber-yard where the Circus itself had been, and where there was
yet a sort of monkish tonsure on the grass, indicating the spot
where the young lady had gone round upon her pet steed Firefly in
her daring flight. Turning into the town again, I came among the
shops, and they were emphatically out of the season. The chemist
had no boxes of ginger-beer powders, no beautifying sea-side soaps
and washes, no attractive scents; nothing but his great goggle-eyed
red bottles, looking as if the winds of winter and the drift of the
salt-sea had inflamed them. The grocers' hot pickles, Harvey's
Sauce, Doctor Kitchener's Zest, Anchovy Paste, Dundee Marmalade,
and the whole stock of luxurious helps to appetite, were
hybernating somewhere underground. The china-shop had no trifles
from anywhere. The Bazaar had given in altogether, and presented a
notice on the shutters that this establishment would re-open at
Whitsuntide, and that the proprietor in the meantime might be heard
of at Wild Lodge, East Cliff. At the Sea-bathing Establishment, a
row of neat little wooden houses seven or eight feet high, I SAW
the proprietor in bed in the shower-bath. As to the bathing-
machines, they were (how they got there, is not for me to say) at
the top of a hill at least a mile and a half off. The library,
which I had never seen otherwise than wide open, was tight shut;
and two peevish bald old gentlemen seemed to be hermetically sealed
up inside, eternally reading the paper. That wonderful mystery,
the music-shop, carried it off as usual (except that it had more
cabinet pianos in stock), as if season or no season were all one to
it. It made the same prodigious display of bright brazen wind-
instruments, horribly twisted, worth, as I should conceive, some
thousands of pounds, and which it is utterly impossible that
anybody in any season can ever play or want to play. It had five
triangles in the window, six pairs of castanets, and three harps;
likewise every polka with a coloured frontispiece that ever was
published; from the original one where a smooth male and female
Pole of high rank are coming at the observer with their arms a-
kimbo, to the Ratcatcher's Daughter. Astonishing establishment,
amazing enigma! Three other shops were pretty much out of the
season, what they were used to be in it. First, the shop where
they sell the sailors' watches, which had still the old collection
of enormous timekeepers, apparently designed to break a fall from
the masthead: with places to wind them up, like fire-plugs.
Secondly, the shop where they sell the sailors' clothing, which
displayed the old sou'-westers, and the old oily suits, and the old
pea-jackets, and the old one sea-chest, with its handles like a
pair of rope ear-rings. Thirdly, the unchangeable shop for the
sale of literature that has been left behind. Here, Dr. Faustus
was still going down to very red and yellow perdition, under the
superintendence of three green personages of a scaly humour, with
excrescential serpents growing out of their blade-bones. Here, the
Golden Dreamer, and the Norwood Fortune Teller, were still on sale
at sixpence each, with instructions for making the dumb cake, and
reading destinies in tea-cups, and with a picture of a young woman
with a high waist lying on a sofa in an attitude so uncomfortable
as almost to account for her dreaming at one and the same time of a
conflagration, a shipwreck, an earthquake, a skeleton, a church-
porch, lightning, funerals performed, and a young man in a bright
blue coat and canary pantaloons. Here, were Little Warblers and
Fairburn's Comic Songsters. Here, too, were ballads on the old
ballad paper and in the old confusion of types; with an old man in
a cocked hat, and an arm-chair, for the illustration to Will Watch
the bold Smuggler; and the Friar of Orders Grey, represented by a
little girl in a hoop, with a ship in the distance. All these as
of yore, when they were infinite delights to me!

It took me so long fully to relish these many enjoyments, that I
had not more than an hour before bedtime to devote to Madame
Roland. We got on admirably together on the subject of her convent
education, and I rose next morning with the full conviction that
the day for the great chapter was at last arrived.

It had fallen calm, however, in the night, and as I sat at
breakfast I blushed to remember that I had not yet been on the
Downs. I a walker, and not yet on the Downs! Really, on so quiet
and bright a morning this must be set right. As an essential part
of the Whole Duty of Man, therefore, I left the chapter to itself -
for the present - and went on the Downs. They were wonderfully
green and beautiful, and gave me a good deal to do. When I had
done with the free air and the view, I had to go down into the
valley and look after the hops (which I know nothing about), and to
be equally solicitous as to the cherry orchards. Then I took it on
myself to cross-examine a tramping family in black (mother alleged,
I have no doubt by herself in person, to have died last week), and
to accompany eighteenpence which produced a great effect, with
moral admonitions which produced none at all. Finally, it was late
in the afternoon before I got back to the unprecedented chapter,
and then I determined that it was out of the season, as the place
was, and put it away.

I went at night to the benefit of Mrs. B. Wedgington at the
Theatre, who had placarded the town with the admonition, 'DON'T
FORGET IT!'  I made the house, according to my calculation, four
and ninepence to begin with, and it may have warmed up, in the
course of the evening, to half a sovereign. There was nothing to
offend any one, - the good Mr. Baines of Leeds excepted. Mrs. B.
Wedgington sang to a grand piano. Mr. B. Wedgington did the like,
and also took off his coat, tucked up his trousers, and danced in
clogs. Master B. Wedgington, aged ten months, was nursed by a
shivering young person in the boxes, and the eye of Mrs. B.
Wedgington wandered that way more than once. Peace be with all the
Wedgingtons from A. to Z. May they find themselves in the Season
somewhere!

A POOR MAN'S TALE OF A PATENT

I AM not used to writing for print. What working-man, that never
labours less (some Mondays, and Christmas Time and Easter Time
excepted) than twelve or fourteen hours a day, is? But I have been
asked to put down, plain, what I have got to say; and so I take
pen-and-ink, and do it to the best of my power, hoping defects will
find excuse.

I was born nigh London, but have worked in a shop at Birmingham
(what you would call Manufactories, we call Shops), almost ever
since I was out of my time. I served my apprenticeship at
Deptford, nigh where I was born, and I am a smith by trade. My
name is John. I have been called 'Old John' ever since I was
nineteen year of age, on account of not having much hair. I am
fifty-six year of age at the present time, and I don't find myself
with more hair, nor yet with less, to signify, than at nineteen
year of age aforesaid.

I have been married five and thirty year, come next April. I was
married on All Fools' Day. Let them laugh that will. I won a good
wife that day, and it was as sensible a day to me as ever I had.

We have had a matter of ten children, six whereof are living. My
eldest son is engineer in the Italian steam-packet 'Mezzo Giorno,
plying between Marseilles and Naples, and calling at Genoa,
Leghorn, and Civita Vecchia.'  He was a good workman. He invented
a many useful little things that brought him in - nothing. I have
two sons doing well at Sydney, New South Wales - single, when last
heard from. One of my sons (James) went wild and for a soldier,
where he was shot in India, living six weeks in hospital with a
musket-ball lodged in his shoulder-blade, which he wrote with his
own hand. He was the best looking. One of my two daughters (Mary)
is comfortable in her circumstances, but water on the chest. The
other (Charlotte), her husband run away from her in the basest
manner, and she and her three children live with us. The youngest,
six year old, has a turn for mechanics.

I am not a Chartist, and I never was. I don't mean to say but what
I see a good many public points to complain of, still I don't think
that's the way to set them right. If I did think so, I should be a
Chartist. But I don't think so, and I am not a Chartist. I read
the paper, and hear discussion, at what we call 'a parlour,' in
Birmingham, and I know many good men and workmen who are Chartists.
Note. Not Physical force.

It won't be took as boastful in me, if I make the remark (for I
can't put down what I have got to say, without putting that down
before going any further), that I have always been of an ingenious
turn. I once got twenty pound by a screw, and it's in use now. I
have been twenty year, off and on, completing an Invention and
perfecting it. I perfected of it, last Christmas Eve at ten
o'clock at night. Me and my wife stood and let some tears fall
over the Model, when it was done and I brought her in to take a
look at it.

A friend of mine, by the name of William Butcher, is a Chartist.
Moderate. He is a good speaker. He is very animated. I have
often heard him deliver that what is, at every turn, in the way of
us working-men, is, that too many places have been made, in the
course of time, to provide for people that never ought to have been
provided for; and that we have to obey forms and to pay fees to
support those places when we shouldn't ought. 'True,' (delivers
William Butcher), 'all the public has to do this, but it falls
heaviest on the working-man, because he has least to spare; and
likewise because impediments shouldn't be put in his way, when he
wants redress of wrong or furtherance of right.'  Note. I have
wrote down those words from William Butcher's own mouth. W. B.
delivering them fresh for the aforesaid purpose.

Now, to my Model again. There it was, perfected of, on Christmas
Eve, gone nigh a year, at ten o'clock at night. All the money I
could spare I had laid out upon the Model; and when times was bad,
or my daughter Charlotte's children sickly, or both, it had stood
still, months at a spell. I had pulled it to pieces, and made it
over again with improvements, I don't know how often. There it
stood, at last, a perfected Model as aforesaid.

William Butcher and me had a long talk, Christmas Day, respecting
of the Model. William is very sensible. But sometimes cranky.
William said, 'What will you do with it, John?'  I said, 'Patent
it.'  William said, 'How patent it, John?'  I said, 'By taking out
a Patent.'  William then delivered that the law of Patent was a
cruel wrong. William said, 'John, if you make your invention
public, before you get a Patent, any one may rob you of the fruits
of your hard work. You are put in a cleft stick, John. Either you
must drive a bargain very much against yourself, by getting a party
to come forward beforehand with the great expenses of the Patent;
or, you must be put about, from post to pillar, among so many
parties, trying to make a better bargain for yourself, and showing
your invention, that your invention will be took from you over your
head.'  I said, 'William Butcher, are you cranky? You are
sometimes cranky.'  William said, 'No, John, I tell you the truth;'
which he then delivered more at length. I said to W. B. I would
Patent the invention myself.

My wife's brother, George Bury of West Bromwich (his wife
unfortunately took to drinking, made away with everything, and
seventeen times committed to Birmingham Jail before happy release
in every point of view), left my wife, his sister, when he died, a
legacy of one hundred and twenty-eight pound ten, Bank of England
Stocks. Me and my wife never broke into that money yet. Note. We
might come to be old and past our work. We now agreed to Patent
the invention. We said we would make a hole in it - I mean in the
aforesaid money - and Patent the invention. William Butcher wrote
me a letter to Thomas Joy, in London. T. J. is a carpenter, six
foot four in height, and plays quoits well. He lives in Chelsea,
London, by the church. I got leave from the shop, to be took on
again when I come back. I am a good workman. Not a Teetotaller;
but never drunk. When the Christmas holidays were over, I went up
to London by the Parliamentary Train, and hired a lodging for a
week with Thomas Joy. He is married. He has one son gone to sea.

Thomas Joy delivered (from a book he had) that the first step to be
took, in Patenting the invention, was to prepare a petition unto
Queen Victoria. William Butcher had delivered similar, and drawn
it up. Note. William is a ready writer. A declaration before a
Master in Chancery was to be added to it. That, we likewise drew
up. After a deal of trouble I found out a Master, in Southampton
Buildings, Chancery Lane, nigh Temple Bar, where I made the
declaration, and paid eighteen-pence. I was told to take the
declaration and petition to the Home Office, in Whitehall, where I
left it to be signed by the Home Secretary (after I had found the
office out), and where I paid two pound, two, and sixpence. In six
days he signed it, and I was told to take it to the Attorney-
General's chambers, and leave it there for a report. I did so, and
paid four pound, four. Note. Nobody all through, ever thankful
for their money, but all uncivil.

My lodging at Thomas Joy's was now hired for another week, whereof
five days were gone. The Attorney-General made what they called a
Report-of-course (my invention being, as William Butcher had
delivered before starting, unopposed), and I was sent back with it
to the Home Office. They made a Copy of it, which was called a
Warrant. For this warrant, I paid seven pound, thirteen, and six.
It was sent to the Queen, to sign. The Queen sent it back, signed.
The Home Secretary signed it again. The gentleman throwed it at me
when I called, and said, 'Now take it to the Patent Office in
Lincoln's Inn.'  I was then in my third week at Thomas Joy's living
very sparing, on account of fees. I found myself losing heart.

At the Patent Office in Lincoln's Inn, they made 'a draft of the
Queen's bill,' of my invention, and a 'docket of the bill.'  I paid
five pound, ten, and six, for this. They 'engrossed two copies of
the bill; one for the Signet Office, and one for the Privy-Seal
Office.'  I paid one pound, seven, and six, for this. Stamp duty
over and above, three pound. The Engrossing Clerk of the same
office engrossed the Queen's bill for signature. I paid him one
pound, one. Stamp-duty, again, one pound, ten. I was next to take
the Queen's bill to the Attorney-General again, and get it signed
again. I took it, and paid five pound more. I fetched it away,
and took it to the Home Secretary again. He sent it to the Queen
again. She signed it again. I paid seven pound, thirteen, and
six, more, for this. I had been over a month at Thomas Joy's. I
was quite wore out, patience and pocket.

Thomas Joy delivered all this, as it went on, to William Butcher.
William Butcher delivered it again to three Birmingham Parlours,
from which it got to all the other Parlours, and was took, as I
have been told since, right through all the shops in the North of
England. Note. William Butcher delivered, at his Parlour, in a
speech, that it was a Patent way of making Chartists.

But I hadn't nigh done yet. The Queen's bill was to be took to the
Signet Office in Somerset House, Strand - where the stamp shop is.
The Clerk of the Signet made 'a Signet bill for the Lord Keeper of
the Privy Seal.'  I paid him four pound, seven. The Clerk of the
Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal made 'a Privy-Seal bill for the Lord
Chancellor.'  I paid him, four pound, two. The Privy-Seal bill was
handed over to the Clerk of the Patents, who engrossed the
aforesaid. I paid him five pound, seventeen, and eight; at the
same time, I paid Stamp-duty for the Patent, in one lump, thirty
pound. I next paid for 'boxes for the Patent,' nine and sixpence.
Note. Thomas Joy would have made the same at a profit for
eighteen-pence. I next paid 'fees to the Deputy, the Lord
Chancellor's Purse-bearer,' two pound, two. I next paid 'fees to
the Clerk of the Hanapar,' seven pound, thirteen. I next paid
'fees to the Deputy Clerk of the Hanaper,' ten shillings. I next
paid, to the Lord Chancellor again, one pound, eleven, and six.
Last of all, I paid 'fees to the Deputy Sealer, and Deputy Chaff-
wax,' ten shillings and sixpence. I had lodged at Thomas Joy's
over six weeks, and the unopposed Patent for my invention, for
England only, had cost me ninety-six pound, seven, and eightpence.
If I had taken it out for the United Kingdom, it would have cost me
more than three hundred pound.

Now, teaching had not come up but very limited when I was young.
So much the worse for me you'll say. I say the same. William
Butcher is twenty year younger than me. He knows a hundred year
more. If William Butcher had wanted to Patent an invention, he
might have been sharper than myself when hustled backwards and
forwards among all those offices, though I doubt if so patient.
Note. William being sometimes cranky, and consider porters,
messengers, and clerks.

Thereby I say nothing of my being tired of my life, while I was
Patenting my invention. But I put this: Is it reasonable to make a
man feel as if, in inventing an ingenious improvement meant to do
good, he had done something wrong? How else can a man feel, when
he is met by such difficulties at every turn? All inventors taking
out a Patent MUST feel so. And look at the expense. How hard on
me, and how hard on the country if there's any merit in me (and my
invention is took up now, I am thankful to say, and doing well), to
put me to all that expense before I can move a finger! Make the
addition yourself, and it'll come to ninety-six pound, seven, and
eightpence. No more, and no less.

What can I say against William Butcher, about places? Look at the
Home Secretary, the Attorney-General, the Patent Office, the
Engrossing Clerk, the Lord Chancellor, the Privy Seal, the Clerk of
the Patents, the Lord Chancellor's Purse-bearer, the Clerk of the
Hanaper, the Deputy Clerk of the Hanaper, the Deputy Sealer, and
the Deputy Chaff-wax. No man in England could get a Patent for an
Indian-rubber band, or an iron-hoop, without feeing all of them.
Some of them, over and over again. I went through thirty-five
stages. I began with the Queen upon the Throne. I ended with the
Deputy Chaff-wax. Note. I should like to see the Deputy Chaff-
wax. Is it a man, or what is it?

What I had to tell, I have told. I have wrote it down. I hope
it's plain. Not so much in the handwriting (though nothing to
boast of there), as in the sense of it. I will now conclude with
Thomas Joy. Thomas said to me, when we parted, 'John, if the laws
of this country were as honest as they ought to be, you would have
come to London - registered an exact description and drawing of
your invention - paid half-a-crown or so for doing of it - and
therein and thereby have got your Patent.'

My opinion is the same as Thomas Joy. Further. In William
Butcher's delivering 'that the whole gang of Hanapers and Chaff-
waxes must be done away with, and that England has been chaffed and
waxed sufficient,' I agree.

THE NOBLE SAVAGE

TO come to the point at once, I beg to say that I have not the
least belief in the Noble Savage. I consider him a prodigious
nuisance, and an enormous superstition. His calling rum fire-
water, and me a pale face, wholly fail to reconcile me to him. I
don't care what he calls me. I call him a savage, and I call a
savage a something highly desirable to be civilised off the face of
the earth. I think a mere gent (which I take to be the lowest form
of civilisation) better than a howling, whistling, clucking,
stamping, jumping, tearing savage. It is all one to me, whether he
sticks a fish-bone through his visage, or bits of trees through the
lobes of his ears, or bird's feathers in his head; whether he
flattens his hair between two boards, or spreads his nose over the
breadth of his face, or drags his lower lip down by great weights,
or blackens his teeth, or knocks them out, or paints one cheek red
and the other blue, or tattoos himself, or oils himself, or rubs
his body with fat, or crimps it with knives. Yielding to
whichsoever of these agreeable eccentricities, he is a savage -
cruel, false, thievish, murderous; addicted more or less to grease,
entrails, and beastly customs; a wild animal with the questionable
gift of boasting; a conceited, tiresome, bloodthirsty, monotonous
humbug.

Yet it is extraordinary to observe how some people will talk about
him, as they talk about the good old times; how they will regret
his disappearance, in the course of this world's development, from
such and such lands where his absence is a blessed relief and an
indispensable preparation for the sowing of the very first seeds of
any influence that can exalt humanity; how, even with the evidence
of himself before them, they will either be determined to believe,
or will suffer themselves to be persuaded into believing, that he
is something which their five senses tell them he is not.

There was Mr. Catlin, some few years ago, with his Ojibbeway
Indians. Mr. Catlin was an energetic, earnest man, who had lived
among more tribes of Indians than I need reckon up here, and who
had written a picturesque and glowing book about them. With his
party of Indians squatting and spitting on the table before him, or
dancing their miserable jigs after their own dreary manner, he
called, in all good faith, upon his civilised audience to take
notice of their symmetry and grace, their perfect limbs, and the
exquisite expression of their pantomime; and his civilised
audience, in all good faith, complied and admired. Whereas, as
mere animals, they were wretched creatures, very low in the scale
and very poorly formed; and as men and women possessing any power
of truthful dramatic expression by means of action, they were no
better than the chorus at an Italian Opera in England - and would
have been worse if such a thing were possible.

Mine are no new views of the noble savage. The greatest writers on
natural history found him out long ago. BUFFON knew what he was,
and showed why he is the sulky tyrant that he is to his women, and
how it happens (Heaven be praised!) that his race is spare in
numbers. For evidence of the quality of his moral nature, pass
himself for a moment and refer to his 'faithful dog.'  Has he ever
improved a dog, or attached a dog, since his nobility first ran
wild in woods, and was brought down (at a very long shot) by POPE?
Or does the animal that is the friend of man, always degenerate in
his low society?

It is not the miserable nature of the noble savage that is the new
thing; it is the whimpering over him with maudlin admiration, and
the affecting to regret him, and the drawing of any comparison of
advantage between the blemishes of civilisation and the tenor of
his swinish life. There may have been a change now and then in
those diseased absurdities, but there is none in him.

Think of the Bushmen. Think of the two men and the two women who
have been exhibited about England for some years. Are the majority
of persons - who remember the horrid little leader of that party in
his festering bundle of hides, with his filth and his antipathy to
water, and his straddled legs, and his odious eyes shaded by his
brutal hand, and his cry of 'Qu-u-u-u-aaa!' (Bosjesman for
something desperately insulting I have no doubt) - conscious of an
affectionate yearning towards that noble savage, or is it
idiosyncratic in me to abhor, detest, abominate, and abjure him? I
have no reserve on this subject, and will frankly state that,
setting aside that stage of the entertainment when he counterfeited
the death of some creature he had shot, by laying his head on his
hand and shaking his left leg - at which time I think it would have
been justifiable homicide to slay him - I have never seen that
group sleeping, smoking, and expectorating round their brazier, but
I have sincerely desired that something might happen to the
charcoal smouldering therein, which would cause the immediate
suffocation of the whole of the noble strangers.

There is at present a party of Zulu Kaffirs exhibiting at the St.
George's Gallery, Hyde Park Corner, London. These noble savages
are represented in a most agreeable manner; they are seen in an
elegant theatre, fitted with appropriate scenery of great beauty,
and they are described in a very sensible and unpretending lecture,
delivered with a modesty which is quite a pattern to all similar
exponents. Though extremely ugly, they are much better shaped than
such of their predecessors as I have referred to; and they are
rather picturesque to the eye, though far from odoriferous to the
nose. What a visitor left to his own interpretings and imaginings
might suppose these noblemen to be about, when they give vent to
that pantomimic expression which is quite settled to be the natural
gift of the noble savage, I cannot possibly conceive; for it is so
much too luminous for my personal civilisation that it conveys no
idea to my mind beyond a general stamping, ramping, and raving,
remarkable (as everything in savage life is) for its dire
uniformity. But let us - with the interpreter's assistance, of
which I for one stand so much in need - see what the noble savage
does in Zulu Kaffirland.

The noble savage sets a king to reign over him, to whom he submits
his life and limbs without a murmur or question, and whose whole
life is passed chin deep in a lake of blood; but who, after killing
incessantly, is in his turn killed by his relations and friends,
the moment a grey hair appears on his head. All the noble savage's
wars with his fellow-savages (and he takes no pleasure in anything
else) are wars of extermination - which is the best thing I know of
him, and the most comfortable to my mind when I look at him. He
has no moral feelings of any kind, sort, or description; and his
'mission' may be summed up as simply diabolical.

The ceremonies with which he faintly diversifies his life are, of
course, of a kindred nature. If he wants a wife he appears before
the kennel of the gentleman whom he has selected for his father-in-
law, attended by a party of male friends of a very strong flavour,
who screech and whistle and stamp an offer of so many cows for the
young lady's hand. The chosen father-in-law - also supported by a
high-flavoured party of male friends - screeches, whistles, and
yells (being seated on the ground, he can't stamp) that there never
was such a daughter in the market as his daughter, and that he must
have six more cows. The son-in-law and his select circle of
backers screech, whistle, stamp, and yell in reply, that they will
give three more cows. The father-in-law (an old deluder, overpaid
at the beginning) accepts four, and rises to bind the bargain. The
whole party, the young lady included, then falling into epileptic
convulsions, and screeching, whistling, stamping, and yelling
together - and nobody taking any notice of the young lady (whose
charms are not to be thought of without a shudder) - the noble
savage is considered married, and his friends make demoniacal leaps
at him by way of congratulation.

When the noble savage finds himself a little unwell, and mentions
the circumstance to his friends, it is immediately perceived that
he is under the influence of witchcraft. A learned personage,
called an Imyanger or Witch Doctor, is immediately sent for to
Nooker the Umtargartie, or smell out the witch. The male
inhabitants of the kraal being seated on the ground, the learned
doctor, got up like a grizzly bear, appears, and administers a
dance of a most terrific nature, during the exhibition of which
remedy he incessantly gnashes his teeth, and howls:- 'I am the
original physician to Nooker the Umtargartie. Yow yow yow! No
connexion with any other establishment. Till till till! All other
Umtargarties are feigned Umtargarties, Boroo Boroo! but I perceive
here a genuine and real Umtargartie, Hoosh Hoosh Hoosh! in whose
blood I, the original Imyanger and Nookerer, Blizzerum Boo! will
wash these bear's claws of mine. O yow yow yow!'  All this time
the learned physician is looking out among the attentive faces for
some unfortunate man who owes him a cow, or who has given him any
small offence, or against whom, without offence, he has conceived a
spite. Him he never fails to Nooker as the Umtargartie, and he is
instantly killed. In the absence of such an individual, the usual
practice is to Nooker the quietest and most gentlemanly person in
company. But the nookering is invariably followed on the spot by
the butchering.

Some of the noble savages in whom Mr. Catlin was so strongly
interested, and the diminution of whose numbers, by rum and
smallpox, greatly affected him, had a custom not unlike this,
though much more appalling and disgusting in its odious details.

The women being at work in the fields, hoeing the Indian corn, and
the noble savage being asleep in the shade, the chief has sometimes
the condescension to come forth, and lighten the labour by looking
at it. On these occasions, he seats himself in his own savage
chair, and is attended by his shield-bearer: who holds over his
head a shield of cowhide - in shape like an immense mussel shell -
fearfully and wonderfully, after the manner of a theatrical
supernumerary. But lest the great man should forget his greatness
in the contemplation of the humble works of agriculture, there
suddenly rushes in a poet, retained for the purpose, called a
Praiser. This literary gentleman wears a leopard's head over his
own, and a dress of tigers' tails; he has the appearance of having
come express on his hind legs from the Zoological Gardens; and he
incontinently strikes up the chief's praises, plunging and tearing
all the while. There is a frantic wickedness in this brute's
manner of worrying the air, and gnashing out, 'O what a delightful
chief he is! O what a delicious quantity of blood he sheds! O how
majestically he laps it up! O how charmingly cruel he is! O how
he tears the flesh of his enemies and crunches the bones! O how
like the tiger and the leopard and the wolf and the bear he is! O,
row row row row, how fond I am of him!' which might tempt the
Society of Friends to charge at a hand-gallop into the Swartz-Kop
location and exterminate the whole kraal.

When war is afoot among the noble savages - which is always - the
chief holds a council to ascertain whether it is the opinion of his
brothers and friends in general that the enemy shall be
exterminated. On this occasion, after the performance of an
Umsebeuza, or war song, - which is exactly like all the other
songs, - the chief makes a speech to his brothers and friends,
arranged in single file. No particular order is observed during
the delivery of this address, but every gentleman who finds himself
excited by the subject, instead of crying 'Hear, hear!' as is the
custom with us, darts from the rank and tramples out the life, or
crushes the skull, or mashes the face, or scoops out the eyes, or
breaks the limbs, or performs a whirlwind of atrocities on the
body, of an imaginary enemy. Several gentlemen becoming thus
excited at once, and pounding away without the least regard to the
orator, that illustrious person is rather in the position of an
orator in an Irish House of Commons. But, several of these scenes
of savage life bear a strong generic resemblance to an Irish
election, and I think would be extremely well received and
understood at Cork.

In all these ceremonies the noble savage holds forth to the utmost
possible extent about himself; from which (to turn him to some
civilised account) we may learn, I think, that as egotism is one of
the most offensive and contemptible littlenesses a civilised man
can exhibit, so it is really incompatible with the interchange of
ideas; inasmuch as if we all talked about ourselves we should soon
have no listeners, and must be all yelling and screeching at once
on our own separate accounts: making society hideous. It is my
opinion that if we retained in us anything of the noble savage, we
could not get rid of it too soon. But the fact is clearly
otherwise. Upon the wife and dowry question, substituting coin for
cows, we have assuredly nothing of the Zulu Kaffir left. The
endurance of despotism is one great distinguishing mark of a savage
always. The improving world has quite got the better of that too.
In like manner, Paris is a civilised city, and the Theatre Francais
a highly civilised theatre; and we shall never hear, and never have
heard in these later days (of course) of the Praiser THERE. No,
no, civilised poets have better work to do. As to Nookering
Umtargarties, there are no pretended Umtargarties in Europe, and no
European powers to Nooker them; that would be mere spydom,
subordination, small malice, superstition, and false pretence. And
as to private Umtargarties, are we not in the year eighteen hundred
and fifty-three, with spirits rapping at our doors?

To conclude as I began. My position is, that if we have anything
to learn from the Noble Savage, it is what to avoid. His virtues
are a fable; his happiness is a delusion; his nobility, nonsense.

We have no greater justification for being cruel to the miserable
object, than for being cruel to a WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE or an ISAAC
NEWTON; but he passes away before an immeasurably better and higher
power than ever ran wild in any earthly woods, and the world will
be all the better when his place knows him no more.

A FLIGHT

WHEN Don Diego de - I forget his name - the inventor of the last
new Flying Machines, price so many francs for ladies, so many more
for gentlemen - when Don Diego, by permission of Deputy Chaff-wax
and his noble band, shall have taken out a Patent for the Queen's
dominions, and shall have opened a commodious Warehouse in an airy
situation; and when all persons of any gentility will keep at least
a pair of wings, and be seen skimming about in every direction; I
shall take a flight to Paris (as I soar round the world) in a cheap
and independent manner. At present, my reliance is on the South-
Eastern Railway Company, in whose Express Train here I sit, at
eight of the clock on a very hot morning, under the very hot roof
of the Terminus at London Bridge, in danger of being 'forced' like
a cucumber or a melon, or a pine-apple. And talking of pine-
apples, I suppose there never were so many pine-apples in a Train
as there appear to be in this Train.

Whew! The hot-house air is faint with pine-apples. Every French
citizen or citizeness is carrying pine-apples home. The compact
little Enchantress in the corner of my carriage (French actress, to
whom I yielded up my heart under the auspices of that brave child,
'MEAT-CHELL,' at the St. James's Theatre the night before last) has
a pine-apple in her lap. Compact Enchantress's friend, confidante,
mother, mystery, Heaven knows what, has two pine-apples in her lap,
and a bundle of them under the seat. Tobacco-smoky Frenchman in
Algerine wrapper, with peaked hood behind, who might be Abd-el-
Kader dyed rifle-green, and who seems to be dressed entirely in
dirt and braid, carries pine-apples in a covered basket. Tall,
grave, melancholy Frenchman, with black Vandyke beard, and hair
close-cropped, with expansive chest to waistcoat, and compressive
waist to coat: saturnine as to his pantaloons, calm as to his
feminine boots, precious as to his jewellery, smooth and white as
to his linen: dark-eyed, high-foreheaded, hawk-nosed - got up, one
thinks, like Lucifer or Mephistopheles, or Zamiel, transformed into
a highly genteel Parisian - has the green end of a pine-apple
sticking out of his neat valise.

Whew! If I were to be kept here long, under this forcing-frame, I
wonder what would become of me - whether I should be forced into a
giant, or should sprout or blow into some other phenomenon!
Compact Enchantress is not ruffled by the heat - she is always
composed, always compact. O look at her little ribbons, frills,
and edges, at her shawl, at her gloves, at her hair, at her
bracelets, at her bonnet, at everything about her! How is it
accomplished? What does she do to be so neat? How is it that
every trifle she wears belongs to her, and cannot choose but be a
part of her? And even Mystery, look at HER! A model. Mystery is
not young, not pretty, though still of an average candle-light
passability; but she does such miracles in her own behalf, that,
one of these days, when she dies, they'll be amazed to find an old
woman in her bed, distantly like her. She was an actress once, I
shouldn't wonder, and had a Mystery attendant on herself. Perhaps,
Compact Enchantress will live to be a Mystery, and to wait with a
shawl at the side-scenes, and to sit opposite to Mademoiselle in
railway carriages, and smile and talk subserviently, as Mystery
does now. That's hard to believe!

Two Englishmen, and now our carriage is full. First Englishman, in
the monied interest - flushed, highly respectable - Stock Exchange,
perhaps - City, certainly. Faculties of second Englishman entirely
absorbed in hurry. Plunges into the carriage, blind. Calls out of
window concerning his luggage, deaf. Suffocates himself under
pillows of great-coats, for no reason, and in a demented manner.
Will receive no assurance from any porter whatsoever. Is stout and
hot, and wipes his head, and makes himself hotter by breathing so
hard. Is totally incredulous respecting assurance of Collected
Guard, that 'there's no hurry.'  No hurry! And a flight to Paris
in eleven hours!

It is all one to me in this drowsy corner, hurry or no hurry.
Until Don Diego shall send home my wings, my flight is with the
South-Eastern Company. I can fly with the South-Eastern, more
lazily, at all events, than in the upper air. I have but to sit
here thinking as idly as I please, and be whisked away. I am not
accountable to anybody for the idleness of my thoughts in such an
idle summer flight; my flight is provided for by the South-Eastern
and is no business of mine.

The bell! With all my heart. It does not require me to do so much
as even to flap my wings. Something snorts for me, something
shrieks for me, something proclaims to everything else that it had
better keep out of my way, - and away I go.

Ah! The fresh air is pleasant after the forcing-frame, though it
does blow over these interminable streets, and scatter the smoke of
this vast wilderness of chimneys. Here we are - no, I mean there
we were, for it has darted far into the rear - in Bermondsey where
the tanners live. Flash! The distant shipping in the Thames is
gone. Whirr! The little streets of new brick and red tile, with
here and there a flagstaff growing like a tall weed out of the
scarlet beans, and, everywhere, plenty of open sewer and ditch for
the promotion of the public health, have been fired off in a
volley. Whizz! Dust-heaps, market-gardens, and waste grounds.
Rattle! New Cross Station. Shock! There we were at Croydon.
Bur-r-r-r! The tunnel.

I wonder why it is that when I shut my eyes in a tunnel I begin to
feel as if I were going at an Express pace the other way. I am
clearly going back to London now. Compact Enchantress must have
forgotten something, and reversed the engine. No! After long
darkness, pale fitful streaks of light appear. I am still flying
on for Folkestone. The streaks grow stronger - become continuous -
become the ghost of day - become the living day - became I mean -
the tunnel is miles and miles away, and here I fly through
sunlight, all among the harvest and the Kentish hops.

There is a dreamy pleasure in this flying. I wonder where it was,
and when it was, that we exploded, blew into space somehow, a
Parliamentary Train, with a crowd of heads and faces looking at us
out of cages, and some hats waving. Monied Interest says it was at
Reigate Station. Expounds to Mystery how Reigate Station is so
many miles from London, which Mystery again develops to Compact
Enchantress. There might be neither a Reigate nor a London for me,
as I fly away among the Kentish hops and harvest. What do I care?

Bang! We have let another Station off, and fly away regardless.
Everything is flying. The hop-gardens turn gracefully towards me,
presenting regular avenues of hops in rapid flight, then whirl
away. So do the pools and rushes, haystacks, sheep, clover in full
bloom delicious to the sight and smell, corn-sheaves, cherry-
orchards, apple-orchards, reapers, gleaners, hedges, gates, fields
that taper off into little angular corners, cottages, gardens, now
and then a church. Bang, bang! A double-barrelled Station! Now a
wood, now a bridge, now a landscape, now a cutting, now a - Bang! a
single-barrelled Station - there was a cricket-match somewhere with
two white tents, and then four flying cows, then turnips - now the
wires of the electric telegraph are all alive, and spin, and blurr
their edges, and go up and down, and make the intervals between
each other most irregular: contracting and expanding in the
strangest manner. Now we slacken. With a screwing, and a
grinding, and a smell of water thrown on ashes, now we stop!

Demented Traveller, who has been for two or three minutes watchful,
clutches his great-coats, plunges at the door, rattles it, cries
'Hi!' eager to embark on board of impossible packets, far inland.
Collected Guard appears. 'Are you for Tunbridge, sir?'
'Tunbridge? No. Paris.'  'Plenty of time, sir. No hurry. Five
minutes here, sir, for refreshment.'  I am so blest (anticipating
Zamiel, by half a second) as to procure a glass of water for
Compact Enchantress.

Who would suppose we had been flying at such a rate, and shall take
wing again directly? Refreshment-room full, platform full, porter
with watering-pot deliberately cooling a hot wheel, another porter
with equal deliberation helping the rest of the wheels bountifully
to ice cream. Monied Interest and I re-entering the carriage
first, and being there alone, he intimates to me that the French
are 'no go' as a Nation. I ask why? He says, that Reign of Terror
of theirs was quite enough. I ventured to inquire whether he
remembers anything that preceded said Reign of Terror? He says not
particularly. 'Because,' I remark, 'the harvest that is reaped,
has sometimes been sown.'  Monied Interest repeats, as quite enough
for him, that the French are revolutionary, - 'and always at it.'

Bell. Compact Enchantress, helped in by Zamiel (whom the stars
confound!), gives us her charming little side-box look, and smites
me to the core. Mystery eating sponge-cake. Pine-apple atmosphere
faintly tinged with suspicions of sherry. Demented Traveller flits
past the carriage, looking for it. Is blind with agitation, and
can't see it. Seems singled out by Destiny to be the only unhappy
creature in the flight, who has any cause to hurry himself. Is
nearly left behind. Is seized by Collected Guard after the Train
is in motion, and bundled in. Still, has lingering suspicions that
there must be a boat in the neighbourhood, and WILL look wildly out
of window for it.

Flight resumed. Corn-sheaves, hop-gardens, reapers, gleaners,
apple-orchards, cherry-orchards, Stations single and double-
barrelled, Ashford. Compact Enchantress (constantly talking to
Mystery, in an exquisite manner) gives a little scream; a sound
that seems to come from high up in her precious little head; from
behind her bright little eyebrows. 'Great Heaven, my pine-apple!
My Angel! It is lost!'  Mystery is desolated. A search made. It
is not lost. Zamiel finds it. I curse him (flying) in the Persian
manner. May his face be turned upside down, and jackasses sit upon
his uncle's grave!

Now fresher air, now glimpses of unenclosed Down-land with flapping
crows flying over it whom we soon outfly, now the Sea, now
Folkestone at a quarter after ten. 'Tickets ready, gentlemen!'
Demented dashes at the door. 'For Paris, sir? No hurry.'

Not the least. We are dropped slowly down to the Port, and sidle
to and fro (the whole Train) before the insensible Royal George
Hotel, for some ten minutes. The Royal George takes no more heed
of us than its namesake under water at Spithead, or under earth at
Windsor, does. The Royal George's dog lies winking and blinking at
us, without taking the trouble to sit up; and the Royal George's
'wedding party' at the open window (who seem, I must say, rather
tired of bliss) don't bestow a solitary glance upon us, flying thus
to Paris in eleven hours. The first gentleman in Folkestone is
evidently used up, on this subject.

Meanwhile, Demented chafes. Conceives that every man's hand is
against him, and exerting itself to prevent his getting to Paris.
Refuses consolation. Rattles door. Sees smoke on the horizon, and
'knows' it's the boat gone without him. Monied Interest
resentfully explains that HE is going to Paris too. Demented
signifies, that if Monied Interest chooses to be left behind, HE
don't.

'Refreshments in the Waiting-Room, ladies and gentlemen. No hurry,
ladies and gentlemen, for Paris. No hurry whatever!'

Twenty minutes' pause, by Folkestone clock, for looking at
Enchantress while she eats a sandwich, and at Mystery while she
eats of everything there that is eatable, from pork-pie, sausage,
jam, and gooseberries, to lumps of sugar. All this time, there is
a very waterfall of luggage, with a spray of dust, tumbling
slantwise from the pier into the steamboat. All this time,
Demented (who has no business with it) watches it with starting
eyes, fiercely requiring to be shown HIS luggage. When it at last
concludes the cataract, he rushes hotly to refresh - is shouted
after, pursued, jostled, brought back, pitched into the departing
steamer upside down, and caught by mariners disgracefully.

A lovely harvest-day, a cloudless sky, a tranquil sea. The piston-
rods of the engines so regularly coming up from below, to look (as
well they may) at the bright weather, and so regularly almost
knocking their iron heads against the cross beam of the skylight,
and never doing it! Another Parisian actress is on board, attended
by another Mystery. Compact Enchantress greets her sister artist -
Oh, the Compact One's pretty teeth! - and Mystery greets Mystery.
My Mystery soon ceases to be conversational - is taken poorly, in a
word, having lunched too miscellaneously - and goes below. The
remaining Mystery then smiles upon the sister artists (who, I am
afraid, wouldn't greatly mind stabbing each other), and is upon the
whole ravished.

And now I find that all the French people on board begin to grow,
and all the English people to shrink. The French are nearing home,
and shaking off a disadvantage, whereas we are shaking it on.
Zamiel is the same man, and Abd-el-Kader is the same man, but each
seems to come into possession of an indescribable confidence that
departs from us - from Monied Interest, for instance, and from me.
Just what they gain, we lose. Certain British 'Gents' about the
steersman, intellectually nurtured at home on parody of everything
and truth of nothing, become subdued, and in a manner forlorn; and
when the steersman tells them (not exultingly) how he has 'been
upon this station now eight year, and never see the old town of
Bullum yet,' one of them, with an imbecile reliance on a reed, asks
him what he considers to be the best hotel in Paris?

Now, I tread upon French ground, and am greeted by the three
charming words, Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, painted up (in
letters a little too thin for their height) on the Custom-house
wall - also by the sight of large cocked hats, without which
demonstrative head-gear nothing of a public nature can be done upon
this soil. All the rabid Hotel population of Boulogne howl and
shriek outside a distant barrier, frantic to get at us. Demented,
by some unlucky means peculiar to himself, is delivered over to
their fury, and is presently seen struggling in a whirlpool of
Touters - is somehow understood to be going to Paris - is, with
infinite noise, rescued by two cocked hats, and brought into
Custom-house bondage with the rest of us.

Here, I resign the active duties of life to an eager being, of
preternatural sharpness, with a shelving forehead and a shabby
snuff-coloured coat, who (from the wharf) brought me down with his
eye before the boat came into port. He darts upon my luggage, on
the floor where all the luggage is strewn like a wreck at the
bottom of the great deep; gets it proclaimed and weighed as the
property of 'Monsieur a traveller unknown;' pays certain francs for
it, to a certain functionary behind a Pigeon Hole, like a pay-box
at a Theatre (the arrangements in general are on a wholesale scale,
half military and half theatrical); and I suppose I shall find it
when I come to Paris - he says I shall. I know nothing about it,
except that I pay him his small fee, and pocket the ticket he gives
me, and sit upon a counter, involved in the general distraction.

Railway station. 'Lunch or dinner, ladies and gentlemen. Plenty
of time for Paris. Plenty of time!'  Large hall, long counter,
long strips of dining-table, bottles of wine, plates of meat, roast
chickens, little loaves of bread, basins of soup, little caraffes
of brandy, cakes, and fruit. Comfortably restored from these
resources, I begin to fly again.

I saw Zamiel (before I took wing) presented to Compact Enchantress
and Sister Artist, by an officer in uniform, with a waist like a
wasp's, and pantaloons like two balloons. They all got into the
next carriage together, accompanied by the two Mysteries. They
laughed. I am alone in the carriage (for I don't consider Demented
anybody) and alone in the world.

Fields, windmills, low grounds, pollard-trees, windmills, fields,
fortifications, Abbeville, soldiering and drumming. I wonder where
England is, and when I was there last - about two years ago, I
should say. Flying in and out among these trenches and batteries,
skimming the clattering drawbridges, looking down into the stagnant
ditches, I become a prisoner of state, escaping. I am confined
with a comrade in a fortress. Our room is in an upper story. We
have tried to get up the chimney, but there's an iron grating
across it, imbedded in the masonry. After months of labour, we
have worked the grating loose with the poker, and can lift it up.
We have also made a hook, and twisted our rugs and blankets into
ropes. Our plan is, to go up the chimney, hook our ropes to the
top, descend hand over hand upon the roof of the guard-house far
below, shake the hook loose, watch the opportunity of the sentinels
pacing away, hook again, drop into the ditch, swim across it, creep
into the shelter of the wood. The time is come - a wild and stormy
night. We are up the chimney, we are on the guard-house roof, we
are swimming in the murky ditch, when lo! 'Qui v'la?' a bugle, the
alarm, a crash! What is it? Death? No, Amiens.

More fortifications, more soldiering and drumming, more basins of
soup, more little loaves of bread, more bottles of wine, more
caraffes of brandy, more time for refreshment. Everything good,
and everything ready. Bright, unsubstantial-looking, scenic sort
of station. People waiting. Houses, uniforms, beards, moustaches,
some sabots, plenty of neat women, and a few old-visaged children.
Unless it be a delusion born of my giddy flight, the grown-up
people and the children seem to change places in France. In
general, the boys and girls are little old men and women, and the
men and women lively boys and girls.

Bugle, shriek, flight resumed. Monied Interest has come into my
carriage. Says the manner of refreshing is 'not bad,' but
considers it French. Admits great dexterity and politeness in the
attendants. Thinks a decimal currency may have something to do
with their despatch in settling accounts, and don't know but what
it's sensible and convenient. Adds, however, as a general protest,
that they're a revolutionary people - and always at it.

Ramparts, canals, cathedral, river, soldiering and drumming, open
country, river, earthenware manufactures, Creil. Again ten
minutes. Not even Demented in a hurry. Station, a drawing-room
with a verandah: like a planter's house. Monied Interest considers
it a band-box, and not made to last. Little round tables in it, at
one of which the Sister Artists and attendant Mysteries are
established with Wasp and Zamiel, as if they were going to stay a
week.

Anon, with no more trouble than before, I am flying again, and
lazily wondering as I fly. What has the South-Eastern done with
all the horrible little villages we used to pass through, in the
DILIGENCE? What have they done with all the summer dust, with all
the winter mud, with all the dreary avenues of little trees, with
all the ramshackle postyards, with all the beggars (who used to
turn out at night with bits of lighted candle, to look in at the
coach windows), with all the long-tailed horses who were always
biting one another, with all the big postilions in jack-boots -
with all the mouldy cafes that we used to stop at, where a long
mildewed table-cloth, set forth with jovial bottles of vinegar and
oil, and with a Siamese arrangement of pepper and salt, was never
wanting? Where are the grass-grown little towns, the wonderful
little market-places all unconscious of markets, the shops that
nobody kept, the streets that nobody trod, the churches that nobody
went to, the bells that nobody rang, the tumble-down old buildings
plastered with many-coloured bills that nobody read? Where are the
two-and-twenty weary hours of long, long day and night journey,
sure to be either insupportably hot or insupportably cold? Where
are the pains in my bones, where are the fidgets in my legs, where
is the Frenchman with the nightcap who never WOULD have the little
coupe-window down, and who always fell upon me when he went to
sleep, and always slept all night snoring onions?

A voice breaks in with 'Paris! Here we are!'

I have overflown myself, perhaps, but I can't believe it. I feel
as if I were enchanted or bewitched. It is barely eight o'clock
yet - it is nothing like half-past - when I have had my luggage
examined at that briskest of Custom-houses attached to the station,
and am rattling over the pavement in a hackney-cabriolet.

Surely, not the pavement of Paris? Yes, I think it is, too. I
don't know any other place where there are all these high houses,
all these haggard-looking wine shops, all these billiard tables,
all these stocking-makers with flat red or yellow legs of wood for
signboard, all these fuel shops with stacks of billets painted
outside, and real billets sawing in the gutter, all these dirty
corners of streets, all these cabinet pictures over dark doorways
representing discreet matrons nursing babies. And yet this morning
- I'll think of it in a warm-bath.

Very like a small room that I remember in the Chinese baths upon
the Boulevard, certainly; and, though I see it through the steam, I
think that I might swear to that peculiar hot-linen basket, like a
large wicker hour-glass. When can it have been that I left home?
When was it that I paid 'through to Paris' at London Bridge, and
discharged myself of all responsibility, except the preservation of
a voucher ruled into three divisions, of which the first was
snipped off at Folkestone, the second aboard the boat, and the
third taken at my journey's end? It seems to have been ages ago.
Calculation is useless. I will go out for a walk.

The crowds in the streets, the lights in the shops and balconies,
the elegance, variety, and beauty of their decorations, the number
of the theatres, the brilliant cafes with their windows thrown up
high and their vivacious groups at little tables on the pavement,
the light and glitter of the houses turned as it were inside out,
soon convince me that it is no dream; that I am in Paris, howsoever
I got there. I stroll down to the sparkling Palais Royal, up the
Rue de Rivoli, to the Place Vendome. As I glance into a print-shop
window, Monied Interest, my late travelling companion, comes upon
me, laughing with the highest relish of disdain. 'Here's a
people!' he says, pointing to Napoleon in the window and Napoleon
on the column. 'Only one idea all over Paris! A monomania!'
Humph! I THINK I have seen Napoleon's match? There was a statue,
when I came away, at Hyde Park Corner, and another in the City, and
a print or two in the shops.

I walk up to the Barriere de l'Etoile, sufficiently dazed by my
flight to have a pleasant doubt of the reality of everything about
me; of the lively crowd, the overhanging trees, the performing
dogs, the hobby-horses, the beautiful perspectives of shining
lamps: the hundred and one enclosures, where the singing is, in
gleaming orchestras of azure and gold, and where a star-eyed Houri
comes round with a box for voluntary offerings. So, I pass to my
hotel, enchanted; sup, enchanted; go to bed, enchanted; pushing
back this morning (if it really were this morning) into the
remoteness of time, blessing the South-Eastern Company for
realising the Arabian Nights in these prose days, murmuring, as I
wing my idle flight into the land of dreams, 'No hurry, ladies and
gentlemen, going to Paris in eleven hours. It is so well done,
that there really is no hurry!'

THE DETECTIVE POLICE

WE are not by any means devout believers in the old Bow Street
Police. To say the truth, we think there was a vast amount of
humbug about those worthies. Apart from many of them being men of
very indifferent character, and far too much in the habit of
consorting with thieves and the like, they never lost a public
occasion of jobbing and trading in mystery and making the most of
themselves. Continually puffed besides by incompetent magistrates
anxious to conceal their own deficiencies, and hand-in-glove with
the penny-a-liners of that time, they became a sort of
superstition. Although as a Preventive Police they were utterly
ineffective, and as a Detective Police were very loose and
uncertain in their operations, they remain with some people a
superstition to the present day.

On the other hand, the Detective Force organised since the
establishment of the existing Police, is so well chosen and
trained, proceeds so systematically and quietly, does its business
in such a workmanlike manner, and is always so calmly and steadily
engaged in the service of the public, that the public really do not
know enough of it, to know a tithe of its usefulness. Impressed
with this conviction, and interested in the men themselves, we
represented to the authorities at Scotland Yard, that we should be
glad, if there were no official objection, to have some talk with
the Detectives. A most obliging and ready permission being given,
a certain evening was appointed with a certain Inspector for a
social conference between ourselves and the Detectives, at The
Household Words Office in Wellington Street, Strand, London. In
consequence of which appointment the party 'came off,' which we are
about to describe. And we beg to repeat that, avoiding such topics
as it might for obvious reasons be injurious to the public, or
disagreeable to respectable individuals, to touch upon in print,
our description is as exact as we can make it.

The reader will have the goodness to imagine the Sanctum Sanctorum
of Household Words. Anything that best suits the reader's fancy,
will best represent that magnificent chamber. We merely stipulate
for a round table in the middle, with some glasses and cigars
arranged upon it; and the editorial sofa elegantly hemmed in
between that stately piece of furniture and the wall.

It is a sultry evening at dusk. The stones of Wellington Street
are hot and gritty, and the watermen and hackney-coachmen at the
Theatre opposite, are much flushed and aggravated. Carriages are
constantly setting down the people who have come to Fairy-Land; and
there is a mighty shouting and bellowing every now and then,
deafening us for the moment, through the open windows.

Just at dusk, Inspectors Wield and Stalker are announced; but we do
not undertake to warrant the orthography of any of the names here
mentioned. Inspector Wield presents Inspector Stalker. Inspector
Wield is a middle-aged man of a portly presence, with a large,
moist, knowing eye, a husky voice, and a habit of emphasising his
conversation by the aid of a corpulent fore-finger, which is
constantly in juxtaposition with his eyes or nose. Inspector
Stalker is a shrewd, hard-headed Scotchman - in appearance not at
all unlike a very acute, thoroughly-trained schoolmaster, from the
Normal Establishment at Glasgow. Inspector Wield one might have
known, perhaps, for what he is - Inspector Stalker, never.

The ceremonies of reception over, Inspectors Wield and Stalker
observe that they have brought some sergeants with them. The
sergeants are presented - five in number, Sergeant Dornton,
Sergeant Witchem, Sergeant Mith, Sergeant Fendall, and Sergeant
Straw. We have the whole Detective Force from Scotland Yard, with
one exception. They sit down in a semi-circle (the two Inspectors
at the two ends) at a little distance from the round table, facing
the editorial sofa. Every man of them, in a glance, immediately
takes an inventory of the furniture and an accurate sketch of the
editorial presence. The Editor feels that any gentleman in company
could take him up, if need should be, without the smallest
hesitation, twenty years hence.

The whole party are in plain clothes. Sergeant Dornton about fifty
years of age, with a ruddy face and a high sunburnt forehead, has
the air of one who has been a Sergeant in the army - he might have
sat to Wilkie for the Soldier in the Reading of the Will. He is
famous for steadily pursuing the inductive process, and, from small
beginnings, working on from clue to clue until he bags his man.
Sergeant Witchem, shorter and thicker-set, and marked with the
small-pox, has something of a reserved and thoughtful air, as if he
were engaged in deep arithmetical calculations. He is renowned for
his acquaintance with the swell mob. Sergeant Mith, a smooth-faced
man with a fresh bright complexion, and a strange air of
simplicity, is a dab at housebreakers. Sergeant Fendall, a light-
haired, well-spoken, polite person, is a prodigious hand at
pursuing private inquiries of a delicate nature. Straw, a little
wiry Sergeant of meek demeanour and strong sense, would knock at a
door and ask a series of questions in any mild character you choose
to prescribe to him, from a charity-boy upwards, and seem as
innocent as an infant. They are, one and all, respectable-looking
men; of perfectly good deportment and unusual intelligence; with
nothing lounging or slinking in their manners; with an air of keen
observation and quick perception when addressed; and generally
presenting in their faces, traces more or less marked of habitually
leading lives of strong mental excitement. They have all good
eyes; and they all can, and they all do, look full at whomsoever
they speak to.

We light the cigars, and hand round the glasses (which are very
temperately used indeed), and the conversation begins by a modest
amateur reference on the Editorial part to the swell mob.
Inspector Wield immediately removes his cigar from his lips, waves
his right hand, and says, 'Regarding the swell mob, sir, I can't do
better than call upon Sergeant Witchem. Because the reason why?
I'll tell you. Sergeant Witchem is better acquainted with the
swell mob than any officer in London.'

Our heart leaping up when we beheld this rainbow in the sky, we
turn to Sergeant Witchem, who very concisely, and in well-chosen
language, goes into the subject forthwith. Meantime, the whole of
his brother officers are closely interested in attending to what he
says, and observing its effect. Presently they begin to strike in,
one or two together, when an opportunity offers, and the
conversation becomes general. But these brother officers only come
in to the assistance of each other - not to the contradiction - and
a more amicable brotherhood there could not be. From the swell
mob, we diverge to the kindred topics of cracksmen, fences, public-
house dancers, area-sneaks, designing young people who go out
'gonophing,' and other 'schools.'  It is observable throughout
these revelations, that Inspector Stalker, the Scotchman, is always
exact and statistical, and that when any question of figures
arises, everybody as by one consent pauses, and looks to him.

When we have exhausted the various schools of Art - during which
discussion the whole body have remained profoundly attentive,
except when some unusual noise at the Theatre over the way has
induced some gentleman to glance inquiringly towards the window in
that direction, behind his next neighbour's back - we burrow for
information on such points as the following. Whether there really
are any highway robberies in London, or whether some circumstances
not convenient to be mentioned by the aggrieved party, usually
precede the robberies complained of, under that head, which quite
change their character? Certainly the latter, almost always.
Whether in the case of robberies in houses, where servants are
necessarily exposed to doubt, innocence under suspicion ever
becomes so like guilt in appearance, that a good officer need be
cautious how he judges it? Undoubtedly. Nothing is so common or
deceptive as such appearances at first. Whether in a place of
public amusement, a thief knows an officer, and an officer knows a
thief - supposing them, beforehand, strangers to each other -
because each recognises in the other, under all disguise, an
inattention to what is going on, and a purpose that is not the
purpose of being entertained? Yes. That's the way exactly.
Whether it is reasonable or ridiculous to trust to the alleged
experiences of thieves as narrated by themselves, in prisons, or
penitentiaries, or anywhere? In general, nothing more absurd.
Lying is their habit and their trade; and they would rather lie -
even if they hadn't an interest in it, and didn't want to make
themselves agreeable - than tell the truth.

From these topics, we glide into a review of the most celebrated
and horrible of the great crimes that have been committed within
the last fifteen or twenty years. The men engaged in the discovery
of almost all of them, and in the pursuit or apprehension of the
murderers, are here, down to the very last instance. One of our
guests gave chase to and boarded the emigrant ship, in which the
murderess last hanged in London was supposed to have embarked. We
learn from him that his errand was not announced to the passengers,
who may have no idea of it to this hour. That he went below, with
the captain, lamp in hand - it being dark, and the whole steerage
abed and sea-sick - and engaged the Mrs. Manning who WAS on board,
in a conversation about her luggage, until she was, with no small
pains, induced to raise her head, and turn her face towards the
light. Satisfied that she was not the object of his search, he
quietly re-embarked in the Government steamer along-side, and
steamed home again with the intelligence.

When we have exhausted these subjects, too, which occupy a
considerable time in the discussion, two or three leave their
chairs, whisper Sergeant Witchem, and resume their seat. Sergeant
Witchem, leaning forward a little, and placing a hand on each of
his legs, then modestly speaks as follows:

'My brother-officers wish me to relate a little account of my
taking Tally-ho Thompson. A man oughtn't to tell what he has done
himself; but still, as nobody was with me, and, consequently, as
nobody but myself can tell it, I'll do it in the best way I can, if
it should meet your approval.'

We assure Sergeant Witchem that he will oblige us very much, and we
all compose ourselves to listen with great interest and attention.

'Tally-ho Thompson,' says Sergeant Witchem, after merely wetting
his lips with his brandy-and-water, 'Tally-ho Thompson was a famous
horse-stealer, couper, and magsman. Thompson, in conjunction with
a pal that occasionally worked with him, gammoned a countryman out
of a good round sum of money, under pretence of getting him a
situation - the regular old dodge - and was afterwards in the "Hue
and Cry" for a horse - a horse that he stole down in Hertfordshire.
I had to look after Thompson, and I applied myself, of course, in
the first instance, to discovering where he was. Now, Thompson's
wife lived, along with a little daughter, at Chelsea. Knowing that
Thompson was somewhere in the country, I watched the house -
especially at post-time in the morning - thinking Thompson was
pretty likely to write to her. Sure enough, one morning the
postman comes up, and delivers a letter at Mrs. Thompson's door.
Little girl opens the door, and takes it in. We're not always sure
of postmen, though the people at the post-offices are always very
obliging. A postman may help us, or he may not, - just as it
happens. However, I go across the road, and I say to the postman,
after he has left the letter, "Good morning! how are you?"  "How
are YOU!" says he. "You've just delivered a letter for Mrs.
Thompson."  "Yes, I have."  "You didn't happen to remark what the
post-mark was, perhaps?"  "No," says he, "I didn't."  "Come," says
I, "I'll be plain with you. I'm in a small way of business, and I
have given Thompson credit, and I can't afford to lose what he owes
me. I know he's got money, and I know he's in the country, and if
you could tell me what the post-mark was, I should be very much
obliged to you, and you'd do a service to a tradesman in a small
way of business that can't afford a loss."  "Well," he said, "I do
assure you that I did not observe what the post-mark was; all I
know is, that there was money in the letter - I should say a
sovereign."  This was enough for me, because of course I knew that
Thompson having sent his wife money, it was probable she'd write to
Thompson, by return of post, to acknowledge the receipt. So I said
"Thankee" to the postman, and I kept on the watch. In the
afternoon I saw the little girl come out. Of course I followed
her. She went into a stationer's shop, and I needn't say to you
that I looked in at the window. She bought some writing-paper and
envelopes, and a pen. I think to myself, "That'll do!" - watch her
home again - and don't go away, you may be sure, knowing that Mrs.
Thompson was writing her letter to Tally-ho, and that the letter
would be posted presently. In about an hour or so, out came the
little girl again, with the letter in her hand. I went up, and
said something to the child, whatever it might have been; but I
couldn't see the direction of the letter, because she held it with
the seal upwards. However, I observed that on the back of the
letter there was what we call a kiss - a drop of wax by the side of
the seal - and again, you understand, that was enough for me. I
saw her post the letter, waited till she was gone, then went into
the shop, and asked to see the Master. When he came out, I told
him, "Now, I'm an Officer in the Detective Force; there's a letter
with a kiss been posted here just now, for a man that I'm in search
of; and what I have to ask of you, is, that you will let me look at
the direction of that letter."  He was very civil - took a lot of
letters from the box in the window - shook 'em out on the counter
with the faces downwards - and there among 'em was the identical
letter with the kiss. It was directed, Mr. Thomas Pigeon, Post
Office, B-, to be left till called for. Down I went to B- (a
hundred and twenty miles or so) that night. Early next morning I
went to the Post Office; saw the gentleman in charge of that
department; told him who I was; and that my object was to see, and
track, the party that should come for the letter for Mr. Thomas
Pigeon. He was very polite, and said, "You shall have every
assistance we can give you; you can wait inside the office; and
we'll take care to let you know when anybody comes for the letter."
Well, I waited there three days, and began to think that nobody
ever WOULD come. At last the clerk whispered to me, "Here!
Detective! Somebody's come for the letter!"  "Keep him a minute,"
said I, and I ran round to the outside of the office. There I saw
a young chap with the appearance of an Ostler, holding a horse by
the bridle - stretching the bridle across the pavement, while he
waited at the Post Office Window for the letter. I began to pat
the horse, and that; and I said to the boy, "Why, this is Mr.
Jones's Mare!"  "No. It an't."  "No?" said I. "She's very like
Mr. Jones's Mare!"  "She an't Mr. Jones's Mare, anyhow," says he.
"It's Mr. So and So's, of the Warwick Arms."  And up he jumped, and
off he went - letter and all. I got a cab, followed on the box,
and was so quick after him that I came into the stable-yard of the
Warwick Arms, by one gate, just as he came in by another. I went
into the bar, where there was a young woman serving, and called for
a glass of brandy-and-water. He came in directly, and handed her
the letter. She casually looked at it, without saying anything,
and stuck it up behind the glass over the chimney-piece. What was
to be done next?

'I turned it over in my mind while I drank my brandy-and-water
(looking pretty sharp at the letter the while), but I couldn't see
my way out of it at all. I tried to get lodgings in the house, but
there had been a horse-fair, or something of that sort, and it was
full. I was obliged to put up somewhere else, but I came backwards
and forwards to the bar for a couple of days, and there was the
letter always behind the glass. At last I thought I'd write a
letter to Mr. Pigeon myself, and see what that would do. So I
wrote one, and posted it, but I purposely addressed it, Mr. John
Pigeon, instead of Mr. Thomas Pigeon, to see what THAT would do.
In the morning (a very wet morning it was) I watched the postman
down the street, and cut into the bar, just before he reached the
Warwick Arms. In he came presently with my letter. "Is there a
Mr. John Pigeon staying here?"  "No! - stop a bit though," says the
barmaid; and she took down the letter behind the glass. "No," says
she, "it's Thomas, and HE is not staying here. Would you do me a
favour, and post this for me, as it is so wet?"  The postman said
Yes; she folded it in another envelope, directed it, and gave it
him. He put it in his hat, and away he went.

'I had no difficulty in finding out the direction of that letter.
It was addressed Mr. Thomas Pigeon, Post Office, R-,
Northamptonshire, to be left till called for. Off I started
directly for R-; I said the same at the Post Office there, as I had
said at B-; and again I waited three days before anybody came. At
last another chap on horseback came. "Any letters for Mr. Thomas
Pigeon?"  "Where do you come from?"  "New Inn, near R-."  He got
the letter, and away HE went at a canter.

'I made my inquiries about the New Inn, near R-, and hearing it was
a solitary sort of house, a little in the horse line, about a
couple of miles from the station, I thought I'd go and have a look
at it. I found it what it had been described, and sauntered in, to
look about me. The landlady was in the bar, and I was trying to
get into conversation with her; asked her how business was, and
spoke about the wet weather, and so on; when I saw, through an open
door, three men sitting by the fire in a sort of parlour, or
kitchen; and one of those men, according to the description I had
of him, was Tally-ho Thompson!

'I went and sat down among 'em, and tried to make things agreeable;
but they were very shy - wouldn't talk at all - looked at me, and
at one another, in a way quite the reverse of sociable. I reckoned
'em up, and finding that they were all three bigger men than me,
and considering that their looks were ugly - that it was a lonely
place - railroad station two miles off - and night coming on -
thought I couldn't do better than have a drop of brandy-and-water
to keep my courage up. So I called for my brandy-and-water; and as
I was sitting drinking it by the fire, Thompson got up and went
out.

'Now the difficulty of it was, that I wasn't sure it WAS Thompson,
because I had never set eyes on him before; and what I had wanted
was to be quite certain of him. However, there was nothing for it
now, but to follow, and put a bold face upon it. I found him
talking, outside in the yard, with the landlady. It turned out
afterwards that he was wanted by a Northampton officer for
something else, and that, knowing that officer to be pock-marked
(as I am myself), he mistook me for him. As I have observed, I
found him talking to the landlady, outside. I put my hand upon his
shoulder - this way - and said, "Tally-ho Thompson, it's no use. I
know you. I'm an officer from London, and I take you into custody
for felony!"  "That be d-d!" says Tally-ho Thompson.

'We went back into the house, and the two friends began to cut up
rough, and their looks didn't please me at all, I assure you. "Let
the man go. What are you going to do with him?"  "I'll tell you
what I'm going to do with him. I'm going to take him to London to-
night, as sure as I'm alive. I'm not alone here, whatever you may
think. You mind your own business, and keep yourselves to
yourselves. It'll be better for you, for I know you both very
well."  I'D never seen or heard of 'em in all my life, but my
bouncing cowed 'em a bit, and they kept off, while Thompson was
making ready to go. I thought to myself, however, that they might
be coming after me on the dark road, to rescue Thompson; so I said
to the landlady, "What men have you got in the house, Missis?"  "We
haven't got no men here," she says, sulkily. "You have got an
ostler, I suppose?"  "Yes, we've got an ostler."  "Let me see him."
Presently he came, and a shaggy-headed young fellow he was. "Now
attend to me, young man," says I; "I'm a Detective Officer from
London. This man's name is Thompson. I have taken him into
custody for felony. I am going to take him to the railroad
station. I call upon you in the Queen's name to assist me; and
mind you, my friend, you'll get yourself into more trouble than you
know of, if you don't!'  You never saw a person open his eyes so
wide. "Now, Thompson, come along!" says I. But when I took out
the handcuffs, Thompson cries, "No! None of that! I won't stand
THEM! I'll go along with you quiet, but I won't bear none of
that!"  "Tally-ho Thompson," I said, "I'm willing to behave as a
man to you, if you are willing to behave as a man to me. Give me
your word that you'll come peaceably along, and I don't want to
handcuff you."  "I will," says Thompson, "but I'll have a glass of
brandy first."  "I don't care if I've another," said I. "We'll
have two more, Missis," said the friends, "and confound you,
Constable, you'll give your man a drop, won't you?"  I was
agreeable to that, so we had it all round, and then my man and I
took Tally-ho Thompson safe to the railroad, and I carried him to
London that night. He was afterwards acquitted, on account of a
defect in the evidence; and I understand he always praises me up to
the skies, and says I'm one of the best of men.'

This story coming to a termination amidst general applause,
Inspector Wield, after a little grave smoking, fixes his eye on his
host, and thus delivers himself:

'It wasn't a bad plant that of mine, on Fikey, the man accused of
forging the Sou'-Western Railway debentures - it was only t'other
day - because the reason why? I'll tell you.

'I had information that Fikey and his brother kept a factory over
yonder there,' - indicating any region on the Surrey side of the
river - 'where he bought second-hand carriages; so after I'd tried
in vain to get hold of him by other means, I wrote him a letter in
an assumed name, saying that I'd got a horse and shay to dispose
of, and would drive down next day that he might view the lot, and
make an offer - very reasonable it was, I said - a reg'lar bargain.
Straw and me then went off to a friend of mine that's in the livery
and job business, and hired a turn-out for the day, a precious
smart turn-out it was - quite a slap-up thing! Down we drove,
accordingly, with a friend (who's not in the Force himself); and
leaving my friend in the shay near a public-house, to take care of
the horse, we went to the factory, which was some little way off.
In the factory, there was a number of strong fellows at work, and
after reckoning 'em up, it was clear to me that it wouldn't do to
try it on there. They were too many for us. We must get our man
out of doors. "Mr. Fikey at home?"  "No, he ain't."  "Expected
home soon?"  "Why, no, not soon."  "Ah! Is his brother here?"
"I'M his brother."  "Oh! well, this is an ill-conwenience, this is.
I wrote him a letter yesterday, saying I'd got a little turn-out to
dispose of, and I've took the trouble to bring the turn-out down a'
purpose, and now he ain't in the way."  "No, he ain't in the way.
You couldn't make it convenient to call again, could you?"  "Why,
no, I couldn't. I want to sell; that's the fact; and I can't put
it off. Could you find him anywheres?"  At first he said No, he
couldn't, and then he wasn't sure about it, and then he'd go and
try. So at last he went up-stairs, where there was a sort of loft,
and presently down comes my man himself in his shirt-sleeves.

'"Well," he says, "this seems to be rayther a pressing matter of
yours."  "Yes," I says, "it IS rayther a pressing matter, and
you'll find it a bargain - dirt cheap."  "I ain't in partickler
want of a bargain just now," he says, "but where is it?"  "Why," I
says, "the turn-out's just outside. Come and look at it."  He
hasn't any suspicions, and away we go. And the first thing that
happens is, that the horse runs away with my friend (who knows no
more of driving than a child) when he takes a little trot along the
road to show his paces. You never saw such a game in your life!

'When the bolt is over, and the turn-out has come to a standstill
again, Fikey walks round and round it as grave as a judge - me too.
"There, sir!" I says. "There's a neat thing!"  "It ain't a bad
style of thing," he says. "I believe you," says I. "And there's a
horse!" - for I saw him looking at it. "Rising eight!" I says,
rubbing his fore-legs. (Bless you, there ain't a man in the world
knows less of horses than I do, but I'd heard my friend at the
Livery Stables say he was eight year old, so I says, as knowing as
possible, "Rising eight.")  "Rising eight, is he?" says he.
"Rising eight," says I. "Well," he says, "what do you want for
it?"  "Why, the first and last figure for the whole concern is
five-and-twenty pound!"  "That's very cheap!" he says, looking at
me. "Ain't it?" I says. "I told you it was a bargain! Now,
without any higgling and haggling about it, what I want is to sell,
and that's my price. Further, I'll make it easy to you, and take
half the money down, and you can do a bit of stiff (1) for the
balance."

" Well," he says again, "that's very cheap."  "I believe you," says
I; "get in and try it, and you'll buy it. Come! take a trial!"

'Ecod, he gets in, and we get in, and we drive along the road, to
show him to one of the railway clerks that was hid in the public-
house window to identify him. But the clerk was bothered, and
didn't know whether it was him, or wasn't - because the reason why?
I'll tell you, - on account of his having shaved his whiskers.
"It's a clever little horse," he says, "and trots well; and the
shay runs light."  "Not a doubt about it," I says. "And now, Mr.
Fikey, I may as well make it all right, without wasting any more of
your time. The fact is, I'm Inspector Wield, and you're my
prisoner."  "You don't mean that?" he says. "I do, indeed."  "Then
burn my body," says Fikey, "if this ain't TOO bad!"

'Perhaps you never saw a man so knocked over with surprise. "I
hope you'll let me have my coat?" he says. "By all means."  "Well,
then, let's drive to the factory."  "Why, not exactly that, I
think," said I; "I've been there, once before, to-day. Suppose we
send for it."  He saw it was no go, so he sent for it, and put it
on, and we drove him up to London, comfortable.'

This reminiscence is in the height of its success, when a general
proposal is made to the fresh-complexioned, smooth-faced officer,
with the strange air of simplicity, to tell the 'Butcher's Story.'

The fresh-complexioned, smooth-faced officer, with the strange air
of simplicity, began with a rustic smile, and in a soft, wheedling
tone of voice, to relate the Butcher's Story, thus:

'It's just about six years ago, now, since information was given at
Scotland Yard of there being extensive robberies of lawns and silks
going on, at some wholesale houses in the City. Directions were
given for the business being looked into; and Straw, and Fendall,
and me, we were all in it.'

'When you received your instructions,' said we, 'you went away, and
held a sort of Cabinet Council together!'

The smooth-faced officer coaxingly replied, 'Ye-es. Just so. We
turned it over among ourselves a good deal. It appeared, when we
went into it, that the goods were sold by the receivers
extraordinarily cheap - much cheaper than they could have been if
they had been honestly come by. The receivers were in the trade,
and kept capital shops - establishments of the first respectability
- one of 'em at the West End, one down in Westminster. After a lot
of watching and inquiry, and this and that among ourselves, we
found that the job was managed, and the purchases of the stolen
goods made, at a little public-house near Smithfield, down by Saint
Bartholomew's; where the Warehouse Porters, who were the thieves,
took 'em for that purpose, don't you see? and made appointments to
meet the people that went between themselves and the receivers.
This public-house was principally used by journeymen butchers from
the country, out of place, and in want of situations; so, what did
we do, but - ha, ha, ha! - we agreed that I should be dressed up
like a butcher myself, and go and live there!'

Never, surely, was a faculty of observation better brought to bear
upon a purpose, than that which picked out this officer for the
part. Nothing in all creation could have suited him better. Even
while he spoke, he became a greasy, sleepy, shy, good-natured,
chuckle-headed, unsuspicious, and confiding young butcher. His
very hair seemed to have suet in it, as he made it smooth upon his
head, and his fresh complexion to be lubricated by large quantities
of animal food.

' - So I - ha, ha, ha!' (always with the confiding snigger of the
foolish young butcher) 'so I dressed myself in the regular way,
made up a little bundle of clothes, and went to the public-house,
and asked if I could have a lodging there? They says, "yes, you
can have a lodging here," and I got a bedroom, and settled myself
down in the tap. There was a number of people about the place, and
coming backwards and forwards to the house; and first one says, and
then another says, "Are you from the country, young man?"  "Yes," I
says, "I am. I'm come out of Northamptonshire, and I'm quite
lonely here, for I don't know London at all, and it's such a mighty
big town."  "It IS a big town," they says. "Oh, it's a VERY big
town!" I says. "Really and truly I never was in such a town. It
quite confuses of me!" and all that, you know.

'When some of the journeymen Butchers that used the house, found
that I wanted a place, they says, "Oh, we'll get you a place!"  And
they actually took me to a sight of places, in Newgate Market,
Newport Market, Clare, Carnaby - I don't know where all. But the
wages was - ha, ha, ha! - was not sufficient, and I never could
suit myself, don't you see? Some of the queer frequenters of the
house were a little suspicious of me at first, and I was obliged to
be very cautious indeed how I communicated with Straw or Fendall.
Sometimes, when I went out, pretending to stop and look into the
shop windows, and just casting my eye round, I used to see some of
'em following me; but, being perhaps better accustomed than they
thought for, to that sort of thing, I used to lead 'em on as far as
I thought necessary or convenient - sometimes a long way - and then
turn sharp round, and meet 'em, and say, "Oh, dear, how glad I am
to come upon you so fortunate! This London's such a place, I'm
blowed if I ain't lost again!"  And then we'd go back all together,
to the public-house, and - ha, ha, ha! and smoke our pipes, don't
you see?

'They were very attentive to me, I am sure. It was a common thing,
while I was living there, for some of 'em to take me out, and show
me London. They showed me the Prisons - showed me Newgate - and
when they showed me Newgate, I stops at the place where the Porters
pitch their loads, and says, "Oh dear, is this where they hang the
men? Oh Lor!"  "That!" they says, "what a simple cove he is! THAT
ain't it!"  And then, they pointed out which WAS it, and I says
"Lor!" and they says, "Now you'll know it agen, won't you?"  And I
said I thought I should if I tried hard - and I assure you I kept a
sharp look out for the City Police when we were out in this way,
for if any of 'em had happened to know me, and had spoke to me, it
would have been all up in a minute. However, by good luck such a
thing never happened, and all went on quiet: though the
difficulties I had in communicating with my brother officers were
quite extraordinary.

'The stolen goods that were brought to the public-house by the
Warehouse Porters, were always disposed of in a back parlour. For
a long time, I never could get into this parlour, or see what was
done there. As I sat smoking my pipe, like an innocent young chap,
by the tap-room fire, I'd hear some of the parties to the robbery,
as they came in and out, say softly to the landlord, "Who's that?
What does HE do here?"  "Bless your soul," says the landlord, "he's
only a" - ha, ha, ha! - "he's only a green young fellow from the
country, as is looking for a butcher's sitiwation. Don't mind
HIM!"  So, in course of time, they were so convinced of my being
green, and got to be so accustomed to me, that I was as free of the
parlour as any of 'em, and I have seen as much as Seventy Pounds'
Worth of fine lawn sold there, in one night, that was stolen from a
warehouse in Friday Street. After the sale the buyers always stood
treat - hot supper, or dinner, or what not - and they'd say on
those occasions, "Come on, Butcher! Put your best leg foremost,
young 'un, and walk into it!"  Which I used to do - and hear, at
table, all manner of particulars that it was very important for us
Detectives to know.

'This went on for ten weeks. I lived in the public-house all the
time, and never was out of the Butcher's dress - except in bed. At
last, when I had followed seven of the thieves, and set 'em to
rights - that's an expression of ours, don't you see, by which I
mean to say that I traced 'em, and found out where the robberies
were done, and all about 'em - Straw, and Fendall, and I, gave one
another the office, and at a time agreed upon, a descent was made
upon the public-house, and the apprehensions effected. One of the
first things the officers did, was to collar me - for the parties
to the robbery weren't to suppose yet, that I was anything but a
Butcher - on which the landlord cries out, "Don't take HIM," he
says, "whatever you do! He's only a poor young chap from the
country, and butter wouldn't melt in his mouth!"  However, they -
ha, ha, ha! - they took me, and pretended to search my bedroom,
where nothing was found but an old fiddle belonging to the
landlord, that had got there somehow or another. But, it entirely
changed the landlord's opinion, for when it was produced, he says,
"My fiddle! The Butcher's a purloiner! I give him into custody
for the robbery of a musical instrument!"

'The man that had stolen the goods in Friday Street was not taken
yet. He had told me, in confidence, that he had his suspicions
there was something wrong (on account of the City Police having
captured one of the party), and that he was going to make himself
scarce. I asked him, "Where do you mean to go, Mr. Shepherdson?"
"Why, Butcher," says he, "the Setting Moon, in the Commercial Road,
is a snug house, and I shall bang out there for a time. I shall
call myself Simpson, which appears to me to be a modest sort of a
name. Perhaps you'll give us a look in, Butcher?"  "Well," says I,
"I think I WILL give you a call" - which I fully intended, don't
you see, because, of course, he was to be taken! I went over to
the Setting Moon next day, with a brother officer, and asked at the
bar for Simpson. They pointed out his room, up-stairs. As we were
going up, he looks down over the banister, and calls out, "Halloa,
Butcher! is that you?"  "Yes, it's me. How do you find yourself?"
"Bobbish," he says; "but who's that with you?"  "It's only a young
man, that's a friend of mine," I says. "Come along, then," says
he; "any friend of the Butcher's is as welcome as the Butcher!"
So, I made my friend acquainted with him, and we took him into
custody.

'You have no idea, sir, what a sight it was, in Court, when they
first knew that I wasn't a Butcher, after all! I wasn't produced
at the first examination, when there was a remand; but I was at the
second. And when I stepped into the box, in full police uniform,
and the whole party saw how they had been done, actually a groan of
horror and dismay proceeded from 'em in the dock!

'At the Old Bailey, when their trials came on, Mr. Clarkson was
engaged for the defence, and he COULDN'T make out how it was, about
the Butcher. He thought, all along, it was a real Butcher. When
the counsel for the prosecution said, "I will now call before you,
gentlemen, the Police-officer," meaning myself, Mr. Clarkson says,
"Why Police-officer? Why more Police-officers? I don't want
Police. We have had a great deal too much of the Police. I want
the Butcher!"  However, sir, he had the Butcher and the Police-
officer, both in one. Out of seven prisoners committed for trial,
five were found guilty, and some of 'em were transported. The
respectable firm at the West End got a term of imprisonment; and
that's the Butcher's Story!'

The story done, the chuckle-headed Butcher again resolved himself
into the smooth-faced Detective. But, he was so extremely tickled
by their having taken him about, when he was that Dragon in
disguise, to show him London, that he could not help reverting to
that point in his narrative; and gently repeating with the Butcher
snigger, '"Oh, dear," I says, "is that where they hang the men?
Oh, Lor!"  "THAT!" says they. "What a simple cove he is!"'

It being now late, and the party very modest in their fear of being
too diffuse, there were some tokens of separation; when Sergeant
Dornton, the soldierly-looking man, said, looking round him with a
smile:

'Before we break up, sir, perhaps you might have some amusement in
hearing of the Adventures of a Carpet Bag. They are very short;
and, I think, curious.'

We welcomed the Carpet Bag, as cordially as Mr. Shepherdson
welcomed the false Butcher at the Setting Moon. Sergeant Dornton
proceeded.

'In 1847, I was despatched to Chatham, in search of one Mesheck, a
Jew. He had been carrying on, pretty heavily, in the bill-stealing
way, getting acceptances from young men of good connexions (in the
army chiefly), on pretence of discount, and bolting with the same.

'Mesheck was off, before I got to Chatham. All I could learn about
him was, that he had gone, probably to London, and had with him - a
Carpet Bag.

'I came back to town, by the last train from Blackwall, and made
inquiries concerning a Jew passenger with - a Carpet Bag.

'The office was shut up, it being the last train. There were only
two or three porters left. Looking after a Jew with a Carpet Bag,
on the Blackwall Railway, which was then the high road to a great
Military Depot, was worse than looking after a needle in a hayrick.
But it happened that one of these porters had carried, for a
certain Jew, to a certain public-house, a certain - Carpet Bag.

'I went to the public-house, but the Jew had only left his luggage
there for a few hours, and had called for it in a cab, and taken it
away. I put such questions there, and to the porter, as I thought
prudent, and got at this description of - the Carpet Bag.

'It was a bag which had, on one side of it, worked in worsted, a
green parrot on a stand. A green parrot on a stand was the means
by which to identify that - Carpet Bag.

'I traced Mesheck, by means of this green parrot on a stand, to
Cheltenham, to Birmingham, to Liverpool, to the Atlantic Ocean. At
Liverpool he was too many for me. He had gone to the United
States, and I gave up all thoughts of Mesheck, and likewise of his
- Carpet Bag.

'Many months afterwards - near a year afterwards - there was a bank
in Ireland robbed of seven thousand pounds, by a person of the name
of Doctor Dundey, who escaped to America; from which country some
of the stolen notes came home. He was supposed to have bought a
farm in New Jersey. Under proper management, that estate could be
seized and sold, for the benefit of the parties he had defrauded.
I was sent off to America for this purpose.

'I landed at Boston. I went on to New York. I found that he had
lately changed New York paper-money for New Jersey paper money, and
had banked cash in New Brunswick. To take this Doctor Dundey, it
was necessary to entrap him into the State of New York, which
required a deal of artifice and trouble. At one time, he couldn't
be drawn into an appointment. At another time, he appointed to
come to meet me, and a New York officer, on a pretext I made; and
then his children had the measles. At last he came, per steamboat,
and I took him, and lodged him in a New York prison called the
Tombs; which I dare say you know, sir?'

Editorial acknowledgment to that effect.

'I went to the Tombs, on the morning after his capture, to attend
the examination before the magistrate. I was passing through the
magistrate's private room, when, happening to look round me to take
notice of the place, as we generally have a habit of doing, I
clapped my eyes, in one corner, on a - Carpet Bag.

'What did I see upon that Carpet Bag, if you'll believe me, but a
green parrot on a stand, as large as life!

'"That Carpet Bag, with the representation of a green parrot on a
stand," said I, "belongs to an English Jew, named Aaron Mesheck,
and to no other man, alive or dead!"

'I give you my word the New York Police Officers were doubled up
with surprise.

'"How did you ever come to know that?" said they.

'"I think I ought to know that green parrot by this time," said I;
"for I have had as pretty a dance after that bird, at home, as ever
I had, in all my life!"'

'And was it Mesheck's?' we submissively inquired.

'Was it, sir? Of course it was! He was in custody for another
offence, in that very identical Tombs, at that very identical time.
And, more than that! Some memoranda, relating to the fraud for
which I had vainly endeavoured to take him, were found to be, at
that moment, lying in that very same individual - Carpet Bag!'

Such are the curious coincidences and such is the peculiar ability,
always sharpening and being improved by practice, and always
adapting itself to every variety of circumstances, and opposing
itself to every new device that perverted ingenuity can invent, for
which this important social branch of the public service is
remarkable! For ever on the watch, with their wits stretched to
the utmost, these officers have, from day to day and year to year,
to set themselves against every novelty of trickery and dexterity
that the combined imaginations of all the lawless rascals in
England can devise, and to keep pace with every such invention that
comes out. In the Courts of Justice, the materials of thousands of
such stories as we have narrated - often elevated into the
marvellous and romantic, by the circumstances of the case - are
dryly compressed into the set phrase, 'in consequence of
information I received, I did so and so.'  Suspicion was to be
directed, by careful inference and deduction, upon the right
person; the right person was to be taken, wherever he had gone, or
whatever he was doing to avoid detection: he is taken; there he is
at the bar; that is enough. From information I, the officer,
received, I did it; and, according to the custom in these cases, I
say no more.

These games of chess, played with live pieces, are played before
small audiences, and are chronicled nowhere. The interest of the
game supports the player. Its results are enough for justice. To
compare great things with small, suppose LEVERRIER or ADAMS
informing the public that from information he had received he had
discovered a new planet; or COLUMBUS informing the public of his
day that from information he had received he had discovered a new
continent; so the Detectives inform it that they have discovered a
new fraud or an old offender, and the process is unknown.

Thus, at midnight, closed the proceedings of our curious and
interesting party. But one other circumstance finally wound up the
evening, after our Detective guests had left us. One of the
sharpest among them, and the officer best acquainted with the Swell
Mob, had his pocket picked, going home!

THREE 'DETECTIVE' ANECDOTES

I. - THE PAIR OF GLOVES

'IT'S a singler story, sir,' said Inspector Wield, of the Detective
Police, who, in company with Sergeants Dornton and Mith, paid us
another twilight visit, one July evening; 'and I've been thinking
you might like to know it.

'It's concerning the murder of the young woman, Eliza Grimwood,
some years ago, over in the Waterloo Road. She was commonly called
The Countess, because of her handsome appearance and her proud way
of carrying of herself; and when I saw the poor Countess (I had
known her well to speak to), lying dead, with her throat cut, on
the floor of her bedroom, you'll believe me that a variety of
reflections calculated to make a man rather low in his spirits,
came into my head.

'That's neither here nor there. I went to the house the morning
after the murder, and examined the body, and made a general
observation of the bedroom where it was. Turning down the pillow
of the bed with my hand, I found, underneath it, a pair of gloves.
A pair of gentleman's dress gloves, very dirty; and inside the
lining, the letters TR, and a cross.

'Well, sir, I took them gloves away, and I showed 'em to the
magistrate, over at Union Hall, before whom the case was. He says,
"Wield," he says, "there's no doubt this is a discovery that may
lead to something very important; and what you have got to do,
Wield, is, to find out the owner of these gloves."

'I was of the same opinion, of course, and I went at it
immediately. I looked at the gloves pretty narrowly, and it was my
opinion that they had been cleaned. There was a smell of sulphur
and rosin about 'em, you know, which cleaned gloves usually have,
more or less. I took 'em over to a friend of mine at Kennington,
who was in that line, and I put it to him. "What do you say now?
Have these gloves been cleaned?"  "These gloves have been cleaned,"
says he. "Have you any idea who cleaned them?" says I. "Not at
all," says he; "I've a very distinct idea who DIDN'T clean 'em, and
that's myself. But I'll tell you what, Wield, there ain't above
eight or nine reg'lar glove-cleaners in London," - there were not,
at that time, it seems - "and I think I can give you their
addresses, and you may find out, by that means, who did clean 'em."
Accordingly, he gave me the directions, and I went here, and I went
there, and I looked up this man, and I looked up that man; but,
though they all agreed that the gloves had been cleaned, I couldn't
find the man, woman, or child, that had cleaned that aforesaid pair
of gloves.

'What with this person not being at home, and that person being
expected home in the afternoon, and so forth, the inquiry took me
three days. On the evening of the third day, coming over Waterloo
Bridge from the Surrey side of the river, quite beat, and very much
vexed and disappointed, I thought I'd have a shilling's worth of
entertainment at the Lyceum Theatre to freshen myself up. So I
went into the Pit, at half-price, and I sat myself down next to a
very quiet, modest sort of young man. Seeing I was a stranger
(which I thought it just as well to appear to be) he told me the
names of the actors on the stage, and we got into conversation.
When the play was over, we came out together, and I said, "We've
been very companionable and agreeable, and perhaps you wouldn't
object to a drain?"  "Well, you're very good," says he; "I
SHOULDN'T object to a drain."  Accordingly, we went to a public-
house, near the Theatre, sat ourselves down in a quiet room up-
stairs on the first floor, and called for a pint of half-and-half,
apiece, and a pipe.

'Well, sir, we put our pipes aboard, and we drank our half-and-
half, and sat a-talking, very sociably, when the young man says,
"You must excuse me stopping very long," he says, "because I'm
forced to go home in good time. I must be at work all night."  "At
work all night?" says I. "You ain't a baker?"  "No," he says,
laughing, "I ain't a baker."  "I thought not," says I, "you haven't
the looks of a baker."  "No," says he, "I'm a glove-cleaner."

'I never was more astonished in my life, than when I heard them
words come out of his lips. "You're a glove-cleaner, are you?"
says I. "Yes," he says, "I am."  "Then, perhaps," says I, taking
the gloves out of my pocket, "you can tell me who cleaned this pair
of gloves? It's a rum story," I says. "I was dining over at
Lambeth, the other day, at a free-and-easy - quite promiscuous -
with a public company - when some gentleman, he left these gloves
behind him! Another gentleman and me, you see, we laid a wager of
a sovereign, that I wouldn't find out who they belonged to. I've
spent as much as seven shillings already, in trying to discover;
but, if you could help me, I'd stand another seven and welcome.
You see there's TR and a cross, inside."  "I see," he says. "Bless
you, I know these gloves very well! I've seen dozens of pairs
belonging to the same party."  "No?" says I. "Yes," says he.
"Then you know who cleaned 'em?" says I. "Rather so," says he.
"My father cleaned 'em."

'"Where does your father live?" says I. "Just round the corner,"
says the young man, "near Exeter Street, here. He'll tell you who
they belong to, directly."  "Would you come round with me now?"
says I. "Certainly," says he, "but you needn't tell my father that
you found me at the play, you know, because he mightn't like it."
"All right!"  We went round to the place, and there we found an old
man in a white apron, with two or three daughters, all rubbing and
cleaning away at lots of gloves, in a front parlour. "Oh, Father!"
says the young man, "here's a person been and made a bet about the
ownership of a pair of gloves, and I've told him you can settle
it."  "Good evening, sir," says I to the old gentleman. "Here's
the gloves your son speaks of. Letters TR, you see, and a cross."
"Oh yes," he says, "I know these gloves very well; I've cleaned
dozens of pairs of 'em. They belong to Mr. Trinkle, the great
upholsterer in Cheapside."  "Did you get 'em from Mr. Trinkle,
direct," says I, "if you'll excuse my asking the question?"  "No,"
says he; "Mr. Trinkle always sends 'em to Mr. Phibbs's, the
haberdasher's, opposite his shop, and the haberdasher sends 'em to
me."  "Perhaps YOU wouldn't object to a drain?" says I. "Not in
the least!" says he. So I took the old gentleman out, and had a
little more talk with him and his son, over a glass, and we parted
excellent friends.

'This was late on a Saturday night. First thing on the Monday
morning, I went to the haberdasher's shop, opposite Mr. Trinkle's,
the great upholsterer's in Cheapside. "Mr. Phibbs in the way?"
"My name is Phibbs."  "Oh! I believe you sent this pair of gloves
to be cleaned?"  "Yes, I did, for young Mr. Trinkle over the way.
There he is in the shop!"  "Oh! that's him in the shop, is it? Him
in the green coat?"  "The same individual."  "Well, Mr. Phibbs,
this is an unpleasant affair; but the fact is, I am Inspector Wield
of the Detective Police, and I found these gloves under the pillow
of the young woman that was murdered the other day, over in the
Waterloo Road!"  "Good Heaven!" says he. "He's a most respectable
young man, and if his father was to hear of it, it would be the
ruin of him!"  "I'm very sorry for it," says I, "but I must take
him into custody."  "Good Heaven!" says Mr. Phibbs, again; "can
nothing be done?"  "Nothing," says I. "Will you allow me to call
him over here," says he, "that his father may not see it done?"  "I
don't object to that," says I; "but unfortunately, Mr. Phibbs, I
can't allow of any communication between you. If any was
attempted, I should have to interfere directly. Perhaps you'll
beckon him over here?'  Mr. Phibbs went to the door and beckoned,
and the young fellow came across the street directly; a smart,
brisk young fellow.

'"Good morning, sir," says I. "Good morning, sir," says he.
"Would you allow me to inquire, sir," says I, "if you ever had any
acquaintance with a party of the name of Grimwood?"  "Grimwood!
Grimwood!" says he. "No!"  "You know the Waterloo Road?"  "Oh! of
course I know the Waterloo Road!"  "Happen to have heard of a young
woman being murdered there?"  "Yes, I read it in the paper, and
very sorry I was to read it."  "Here's a pair of gloves belonging
to you, that I found under her pillow the morning afterwards!"

'He was in a dreadful state, sir; a dreadful state I "Mr. Wield,"
he says, "upon my solemn oath I never was there. I never so much
as saw her, to my knowledge, in my life!"  "I am very sorry," says
I. "To tell you the truth; I don't think you ARE the murderer, but
I must take you to Union Hall in a cab. However, I think it's a
case of that sort, that, at present, at all events, the magistrate
will hear it in private."

'A private examination took place, and then it came out that this
young man was acquainted with a cousin of the unfortunate Eliza
Grimwood, and that, calling to see this cousin a day or two before
the murder, he left these gloves upon the table. Who should come
in, shortly afterwards, but Eliza Grimwood! "Whose gloves are
these?" she says, taking 'em up. "Those are Mr. Trinkle's gloves,"
says her cousin. "Oh!" says she, "they are very dirty, and of no
use to him, I am sure. I shall take 'em away for my girl to clean
the stoves with."  And she put 'em in her pocket. The girl had
used 'em to clean the stoves, and, I have no doubt, had left 'em
lying on the bedroom mantelpiece, or on the drawers, or somewhere;
and her mistress, looking round to see that the room was tidy, had
caught 'em up and put 'em under the pillow where I found 'em.

That's the story, sir.'

II. - THE ARTFUL TOUCH

'One of the most BEAUTIFUL things that ever was done, perhaps,'
said Inspector Wield, emphasising the adjective, as preparing us to
expect dexterity or ingenuity rather than strong interest, 'was a
move of Sergeant Witchem's. It was a lovely idea!

'Witchem and me were down at Epsom one Derby Day, waiting at the
station for the Swell Mob. As I mentioned, when we were talking
about these things before, we are ready at the station when there's
races, or an Agricultural Show, or a Chancellor sworn in for an
university, or Jenny Lind, or anything of that sort; and as the
Swell Mob come down, we send 'em back again by the next train. But
some of the Swell Mob, on the occasion of this Derby that I refer
to, so far kidded us as to hire a horse and shay; start away from
London by Whitechapel, and miles round; come into Epsom from the
opposite direction; and go to work, right and left, on the course,
while we were waiting for 'em at the Rail. That, however, ain't
the point of what I'm going to tell you.

'While Witchem and me were waiting at the station, there comes up
one Mr. Tatt; a gentleman formerly in the public line, quite an
amateur Detective in his way, and very much respected. "Halloa,
Charley Wield," he says. "What are you doing here? On the look
out for some of your old friends?"  "Yes, the old move, Mr. Tatt."
"Come along," he says, "you and Witchem, and have a glass of
sherry."  "We can't stir from the place," says I, "till the next
train comes in; but after that, we will with pleasure."  Mr. Tatt
waits, and the train comes in, and then Witchem and me go off with
him to the Hotel. Mr. Tatt he's got up quite regardless of
expense, for the occasion; and in his shirt-front there's a
beautiful diamond prop, cost him fifteen or twenty pound - a very
handsome pin indeed. We drink our sherry at the bar, and have had
our three or four glasses, when Witchem cries suddenly, "Look out,
Mr. Wield! stand fast!" and a dash is made into the place by the
Swell Mob - four of 'em - that have come down as I tell you, and in
a moment Mr. Tatt's prop is gone! Witchem, he cuts 'em off at the
door, I lay about me as hard as I can, Mr. Tatt shows fight like a
good 'un, and there we are, all down together, heads and heels,
knocking about on the floor of the bar - perhaps you never see such
a scene of confusion! However, we stick to our men (Mr. Tatt being
as good as any officer), and we take 'em all, and carry 'em off to
the station.'  The station's full of people, who have been took on
the course; and it's a precious piece of work to get 'em secured.
However, we do it at last, and we search 'em; but nothing's found
upon 'em, and they're locked up; and a pretty state of heat we are
in by that time, I assure you!

'I was very blank over it, myself, to think that the prop had been
passed away; and I said to Witchem, when we had set 'em to rights,
and were cooling ourselves along with Mr. Tatt, "we don't take much
by THIS move, anyway, for nothing's found upon 'em, and it's only
the braggadocia, (2) after all."  "What do you mean, Mr. Wield?"
says Witchem. "Here's the diamond pin!" and in the palm of his
hand there it was, safe and sound! "Why, in the name of wonder,"
says me and Mr. Tatt, in astonishment, "how did you come by that?"
"I'll tell you how I come by it," says he. "I saw which of 'em
took it; and when we were all down on the floor together, knocking
about, I just gave him a little touch on the back of his hand, as I
knew his pal would; and he thought it WAS his pal; and gave it me!"
It was beautiful, beau-ti-ful!

'Even that was hardly the best of the case, for that chap was tried
at the Quarter Sessions at Guildford. You know what Quarter
Sessions are, sir. Well, if you'll believe me, while them slow
justices were looking over the Acts of Parliament, to see what they
could do to him, I'm blowed if he didn't cut out of the dock before
their faces! He cut out of the dock, sir, then and there; swam
across a river; and got up into a tree to dry himself. In the tree
he was took - an old woman having seen him climb up - and Witchem's
artful touch transported him!'

III. - THE SOFA

"What young men will do, sometimes, to ruin themselves and break
their friends' hearts,' said Sergeant Dornton, 'it's surprising! I
had a case at Saint Blank's Hospital which was of this sort. A bad
case, indeed, with a bad end!

'The Secretary, and the House-Surgeon, and the Treasurer, of Saint
Blank's Hospital, came to Scotland Yard to give information of
numerous robberies having been committed on the students. The
students could leave nothing in the pockets of their great-coats,
while the great-coats were hanging at the hospital, but it was
almost certain to be stolen. Property of various descriptions was
constantly being lost; and the gentlemen were naturally uneasy
about it, and anxious, for the credit of the institution, that the
thief or thieves should be discovered. The case was entrusted to
me, and I went to the hospital.

'"Now, gentlemen," said I, after we had talked it over; "I
understand this property is usually lost from one room."

'Yes, they said. It was.

'"I should wish, if you please," said I, "to see the room."

'It was a good-sized bare room down-stairs, with a few tables and
forms in it, and a row of pegs, all round, for hats and coats.

'"Next, gentlemen," said I, "do you suspect anybody?"

'Yes, they said. They did suspect somebody. They were sorry to
say, they suspected one of the porters.

'"I should like," said I, "to have that man pointed out to me, and
to have a little time to look after him."

'He was pointed out, and I looked after him, and then I went back
to the hospital, and said, "Now, gentlemen, it's not the porter.
He's, unfortunately for himself, a little too fond of drink, but
he's nothing worse. My suspicion is, that these robberies are
committed by one of the students; and if you'll put me a sofa into
that room where the pegs are - as there's no closet - I think I
shall be able to detect the thief. I wish the sofa, if you please,
to be covered with chintz, or something of that sort, so that I may
lie on my chest, underneath it, without being seen."

'The sofa was provided, and next day at eleven o'clock, before any
of the students came, I went there, with those gentlemen, to get
underneath it. It turned out to be one of those old-fashioned
sofas with a great cross-beam at the bottom, that would have broken
my back in no time if I could ever have got below it. We had quite
a job to break all this away in the time; however, I fell to work,
and they fell to work, and we broke it out, and made a clear place
for me. I got under the sofa, lay down on my chest, took out my
knife, and made a convenient hole in the chintz to look through.
It was then settled between me and the gentlemen that when the
students were all up in the wards, one of the gentlemen should come
in, and hang up a great-coat on one of the pegs. And that that
great-coat should have, in one of the pockets, a pocket-book
containing marked money.

'After I had been there some time, the students began to drop into
the room, by ones, and twos, and threes, and to talk about all
sorts of things, little thinking there was anybody under the sofa -
and then to go up-stairs. At last there came in one who remained
until he was alone in the room by himself. A tallish, good-looking
young man of one or two and twenty, with a light whisker. He went
to a particular hat-peg, took off a good hat that was hanging
there, tried it on, hung his own hat in its place, and hung that
hat on another peg, nearly opposite to me. I then felt quite
certain that he was the thief, and would come back by-and-by.

'When they were all up-stairs, the gentleman came in with the
great-coat. I showed him where to hang it, so that I might have a
good view of it; and he went away; and I lay under the sofa on my
chest, for a couple of hours or so, waiting.

'At last, the same young man came down. He walked across the room,
whistling - stopped and listened - took another walk and whistled -
stopped again, and listened - then began to go regularly round the
pegs, feeling in the pockets of all the coats. When he came to the
great-coat, and felt the pocket-book, he was so eager and so
hurried that he broke the strap in tearing it open. As he began to
put the money in his pocket, I crawled out from under the sofa, and
his eyes met mine.

'My face, as you may perceive, is brown now, but it was pale at
that time, my health not being good; and looked as long as a
horse's. Besides which, there was a great draught of air from the
door, underneath the sofa, and I had tied a handkerchief round my
head; so what I looked like, altogether, I don't know. He turned
blue - literally blue - when he saw me crawling out, and I couldn't
feel surprised at it.

'"I am an officer of the Detective Police," said I, "and have been
lying here, since you first came in this morning. I regret, for
the sake of yourself and your friends, that you should have done
what you have; but this case is complete. You have the pocket-book
in your hand and the money upon you; and I must take you into
custody!"

'It was impossible to make out any case in his behalf, and on his
trial he pleaded guilty. How or when he got the means I don't
know; but while he was awaiting his sentence, he poisoned himself
in Newgate.'

We inquired of this officer, on the conclusion of the foregoing
anecdote, whether the time appeared long, or short, when he lay in
that constrained position under the sofa?

'Why, you see, sir,' he replied, 'if he hadn't come in, the first
time, and I had not been quite sure he was the thief, and would
return, the time would have seemed long. But, as it was, I being
dead certain of my man, the time seemed pretty short.'

ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD

HOW goes the night? Saint Giles's clock is striking nine. The
weather is dull and wet, and the long lines of street lamps are
blurred, as if we saw them through tears. A damp wind blows and
rakes the pieman's fire out, when he opens the door of his little
furnace, carrying away an eddy of sparks.

Saint Giles's clock strikes nine. We are punctual. Where is
Inspector Field? Assistant Commissioner of Police is already here,
enwrapped in oil-skin cloak, and standing in the shadow of Saint
Giles's steeple. Detective Sergeant, weary of speaking French all
day to foreigners unpacking at the Great Exhibition, is already
here. Where is Inspector Field?

Inspector Field is, to-night, the guardian genius of the British
Museum. He is bringing his shrewd eye to bear on every corner of
its solitary galleries, before he reports 'all right.'  Suspicious
of the Elgin marbles, and not to be done by cat-faced Egyptian
giants with their hands upon their knees, Inspector Field,
sagacious, vigilant, lamp in hand, throwing monstrous shadows on
the walls and ceilings, passes through the spacious rooms. If a
mummy trembled in an atom of its dusty covering, Inspector Field
would say, 'Come out of that, Tom Green. I know you!'  If the
smallest 'Gonoph' about town were crouching at the bottom of a
classic bath, Inspector Field would nose him with a finer scent
than the ogre's, when adventurous Jack lay trembling in his kitchen
copper. But all is quiet, and Inspector Field goes warily on,
making little outward show of attending to anything in particular,
just recognising the Ichthyosaurus as a familiar acquaintance, and
wondering, perhaps, how the detectives did it in the days before
the Flood.

Will Inspector Field be long about this work? He may be half-an-
hour longer. He sends his compliments by Police Constable, and
proposes that we meet at St. Giles's Station House, across the
road. Good. It were as well to stand by the fire, there, as in
the shadow of Saint Giles's steeple.

Anything doing here to-night? Not much. We are very quiet. A
lost boy, extremely calm and small, sitting by the fire, whom we
now confide to a constable to take home, for the child says that if
you show him Newgate Street, he can show you where he lives - a
raving drunken woman in the cells, who has screeched her voice
away, and has hardly power enough left to declare, even with the
passionate help of her feet and arms, that she is the daughter of a
British officer, and, strike her blind and dead, but she'll write a
letter to the Queen! but who is soothed with a drink of water - in
another cell, a quiet woman with a child at her breast, for begging
- in another, her husband in a smock-frock, with a basket of
watercresses - in another, a pickpocket - in another, a meek
tremulous old pauper man who has been out for a holiday 'and has
took but a little drop, but it has overcome him after so many
months in the house' - and that's all as yet. Presently, a
sensation at the Station House door. Mr. Field, gentlemen!

Inspector Field comes in, wiping his forehead, for he is of a burly
figure, and has come fast from the ores and metals of the deep
mines of the earth, and from the Parrot Gods of the South Sea
Islands, and from the birds and beetles of the tropics, and from
the Arts of Greece and Rome, and from the Sculptures of Nineveh,
and from the traces of an elder world, when these were not. Is
Rogers ready? Rogers is ready, strapped and great-coated, with a
flaming eye in the middle of his waist, like a deformed Cyclops.
Lead on, Rogers, to Rats' Castle!

How many people may there be in London, who, if we had brought them
deviously and blindfold, to this street, fifty paces from the
Station House, and within call of Saint Giles's church, would know
it for a not remote part of the city in which their lives are
passed? How many, who amidst this compound of sickening smells,
these heaps of filth, these tumbling houses, with all their vile
contents, animate, and inanimate, slimily overflowing into the
black road, would believe that they breathe THIS air? How much Red
Tape may there be, that could look round on the faces which now hem
us in - for our appearance here has caused a rush from all points
to a common centre - the lowering foreheads, the sallow cheeks, the
brutal eyes, the matted hair, the infected, vermin-haunted heaps of
rags - and say, 'I have thought of this. I have not dismissed the
thing. I have neither blustered it away, nor frozen it away, nor
tied it up and put it away, nor smoothly said pooh, pooh! to it
when it has been shown to me?'

This is not what Rogers wants to know, however. What Rogers wants
to know, is, whether you WILL clear the way here, some of you, or
whether you won't; because if you don't do it right on end, he'll
lock you up! 'What! YOU are there, are you, Bob Miles? You
haven't had enough of it yet, haven't you? You want three months
more, do you? Come away from that gentleman! What are you
creeping round there for?'

'What am I a doing, thinn, Mr. Rogers?' says Bob Miles, appearing,
villainous, at the end of a lane of light, made by the lantern.

'I'll let you know pretty quick, if you don't hook it. WILL you
hook it?'

A sycophantic murmur rises from the crowd. 'Hook it, Bob, when Mr.
Rogers and Mr. Field tells you! Why don't you hook it, when you
are told to?'

The most importunate of the voices strikes familiarly on Mr.
Rogers's ear. He suddenly turns his lantern on the owner.

'What! YOU are there, are you, Mister Click? You hook it too -
come!'

'What for?' says Mr. Click, discomfited.

'You hook it, will you!' says Mr. Rogers with stern emphasis.

Both Click and Miles DO 'hook it,' without another word, or, in
plainer English, sneak away.

'Close up there, my men!' says Inspector Field to two constables on
duty who have followed. 'Keep together, gentlemen; we are going
down here. Heads!'

Saint Giles's church strikes half-past ten. We stoop low, and
creep down a precipitous flight of steps into a dark close cellar.
There is a fire. There is a long deal table. There are benches.
The cellar is full of company, chiefly very young men in various
conditions of dirt and raggedness. Some are eating supper. There
are no girls or women present. Welcome to Rats' Castle, gentlemen,
and to this company of noted thieves!

'Well, my lads! How are you, my lads? What have you been doing
to-day? Here's some company come to see you, my lads! - THERE'S a
plate of beefsteak, sir, for the supper of a fine young man! And
there's a mouth for a steak, sir! Why, I should be too proud of
such a mouth as that, if I had it myself! Stand up and show it,
sir! Take off your cap. There's a fine young man for a nice
little party, sir! An't he?'

Inspector Field is the bustling speaker. Inspector Field's eye is
the roving eye that searches every corner of the cellar as he
talks. Inspector Field's hand is the well-known hand that has
collared half the people here, and motioned their brothers,
sisters, fathers, mothers, male and female friends, inexorably to
New South Wales. Yet Inspector Field stands in this den, the
Sultan of the place. Every thief here cowers before him, like a
schoolboy before his schoolmaster. All watch him, all answer when
addressed, all laugh at his jokes, all seek to propitiate him.
This cellar company alone - to say nothing of the crowd surrounding
the entrance from the street above, and making the steps shine with
eyes - is strong enough to murder us all, and willing enough to do
it; but, let Inspector Field have a mind to pick out one thief
here, and take him; let him produce that ghostly truncheon from his
pocket, and say, with his business-air, 'My lad, I want you!' and
all Rats' Castle shall be stricken with paralysis, and not a finger
move against him, as he fits the handcuffs on!

Where's the Earl of Warwick? - Here he is, Mr. Field! Here's the
Earl of Warwick, Mr. Field! - O there you are, my Lord. Come
for'ard. There's a chest, sir, not to have a clean shirt on. An't
it? Take your hat off, my Lord. Why, I should be ashamed if I was
you - and an Earl, too - to show myself to a gentleman with my hat
on! - The Earl of Warwick laughs and uncovers. All the company
laugh. One pickpocket, especially, laughs with great enthusiasm.
O what a jolly game it is, when Mr. Field comes down - and don't
want nobody!

So, YOU are here, too, are you, you tall, grey, soldierly-looking,
grave man, standing by the fire? - Yes, sir. Good evening, Mr.
Field! - Let us see. You lived servant to a nobleman once? - Yes,
Mr. Field. - And what is it you do now; I forget? - Well, Mr.
Field, I job about as well as I can. I left my employment on
account of delicate health. The family is still kind to me. Mr.
Wix of Piccadilly is also very kind to me when I am hard up.
Likewise Mr. Nix of Oxford Street. I get a trifle from them
occasionally, and rub on as well as I can, Mr. Field. Mr. Field's
eye rolls enjoyingly, for this man is a notorious begging-letter
writer. - Good night, my lads! - Good night, Mr. Field, and
thank'ee, sir!

Clear the street here, half a thousand of you! Cut it, Mrs.
Stalker - none of that - we don't want you! Rogers of the flaming
eye, lead on to the tramps' lodging-house!

A dream of baleful faces attends to the door. Now, stand back all
of you! In the rear Detective Sergeant plants himself, composedly
whistling, with his strong right arm across the narrow passage.
Mrs. Stalker, I am something'd that need not be written here, if
you won't get yourself into trouble, in about half a minute, if I
see that face of yours again!

Saint Giles's church clock, striking eleven, hums through our hand
from the dilapidated door of a dark outhouse as we open it, and are
stricken back by the pestilent breath that issues from within.
Rogers to the front with the light, and let us look!

Ten, twenty, thirty - who can count them! Men, women, children,
for the most part naked, heaped upon the floor like maggots in a
cheese! Ho! In that dark corner yonder! Does anybody lie there?
Me sir, Irish me, a widder, with six children. And yonder? Me
sir, Irish me, with me wife and eight poor babes. And to the left
there? Me sir, Irish me, along with two more Irish boys as is me
friends. And to the right there? Me sir and the Murphy fam'ly,
numbering five blessed souls. And what's this, coiling, now, about
my foot? Another Irish me, pitifully in want of shaving, whom I
have awakened from sleep - and across my other foot lies his wife -
and by the shoes of Inspector Field lie their three eldest - and
their three youngest are at present squeezed between the open door
and the wall. And why is there no one on that little mat before
the sullen fire? Because O'Donovan, with his wife and daughter, is
not come in from selling Lucifers! Nor on the bit of sacking in
the nearest corner? Bad luck! Because that Irish family is late
to-night, a-cadging in the streets!

They are all awake now, the children excepted, and most of them sit
up, to stare. Wheresoever Mr. Rogers turns the flaming eye, there
is a spectral figure rising, unshrouded, from a grave of rags. Who
is the landlord here? - I am, Mr. Field! says a bundle of ribs and
parchment against the wall, scratching itself. - Will you spend
this money fairly, in the morning, to buy coffee for 'em all? -
Yes, sir, I will! - O he'll do it, sir, he'll do it fair. He's
honest! cry the spectres. And with thanks and Good Night sink into
their graves again.

Thus, we make our New Oxford Streets, and our other new streets,
never heeding, never asking, where the wretches whom we clear out,
crowd. With such scenes at our doors, with all the plagues of
Egypt tied up with bits of cobweb in kennels so near our homes, we
timorously make our Nuisance Bills and Boards of Health,
nonentities, and think to keep away the Wolves of Crime and Filth,
by our electioneering ducking to little vestrymen and our
gentlemanly handling of Red Tape!

Intelligence of the coffee-money has got abroad. The yard is full,
and Rogers of the flaming eye is beleaguered with entreaties to
show other Lodging Houses. Mine next! Mine! Mine! Rogers,
military, obdurate, stiff-necked, immovable, replies not, but leads
away; all falling back before him. Inspector Field follows.
Detective Sergeant, with his barrier of arm across the little
passage, deliberately waits to close the procession. He sees
behind him, without any effort, and exceedingly disturbs one
individual far in the rear by coolly calling out, 'It won't do, Mr.
Michael! Don't try it!'

After council holden in the street, we enter other lodging-houses,
public-houses, many lairs and holes; all noisome and offensive;
none so filthy and so crowded as where Irish are. In one, The
Ethiopian party are expected home presently - were in Oxford Street
when last heard of - shall be fetched, for our delight, within ten
minutes. In another, one of the two or three Professors who drew
Napoleon Buonaparte and a couple of mackerel, on the pavement and
then let the work of art out to a speculator, is refreshing after
his labours. In another, the vested interest of the profitable
nuisance has been in one family for a hundred years, and the
landlord drives in comfortably from the country to his snug little
stew in town. In all, Inspector Field is received with warmth.
Coiners and smashers droop before him; pickpockets defer to him;
the gentle sex (not very gentle here) smile upon him. Half-drunken
hags check themselves in the midst of pots of beer, or pints of
gin, to drink to Mr. Field, and pressingly to ask the honour of his
finishing the draught. One beldame in rusty black has such
admiration for him, that she runs a whole street's length to shake
him by the hand; tumbling into a heap of mud by the way, and still
pressing her attentions when her very form has ceased to be
distinguishable through it. Before the power of the law, the power
of superior sense - for common thieves are fools beside these men -
and the power of a perfect mastery of their character, the garrison
of Rats' Castle and the adjacent Fortresses make but a skulking
show indeed when reviewed by Inspector Field.

Saint Giles's clock says it will be midnight in half-an-hour, and
Inspector Field says we must hurry to the Old Mint in the Borough.
The cab-driver is low-spirited, and has a solemn sense of his
responsibility. Now, what's your fare, my lad? - O YOU know,
Inspector Field, what's the good of asking ME!

Say, Parker, strapped and great-coated, and waiting in dim Borough
doorway by appointment, to replace the trusty Rogers whom we left
deep in Saint Giles's, are you ready? Ready, Inspector Field, and
at a motion of my wrist behold my flaming eye.

This narrow street, sir, is the chief part of the Old Mint, full of
low lodging-houses, as you see by the transparent canvas-lamps and
blinds, announcing beds for travellers! But it is greatly changed,
friend Field, from my former knowledge of it; it is infinitely
quieter and more subdued than when I was here last, some seven
years ago? O yes! Inspector Haynes, a first-rate man, is on this
station now and plays the Devil with them!

Well, my lads! How are you to-night, my lads? Playing cards here,
eh? Who wins? - Why, Mr. Field, I, the sulky gentleman with the
damp flat side-curls, rubbing my bleared eye with the end of my
neckerchief which is like a dirty eel-skin, am losing just at
present, but I suppose I must take my pipe out of my mouth, and be
submissive to YOU - I hope I see you well, Mr. Field? - Aye, all
right, my lad. Deputy, who have you got up-stairs? Be pleased to
show the rooms!

Why Deputy, Inspector Field can't say. He only knows that the man
who takes care of the beds and lodgers is always called so.
Steady, O Deputy, with the flaring candle in the blacking-bottle,
for this is a slushy back-yard, and the wooden staircase outside
the house creaks and has holes in it.

Again, in these confined intolerable rooms, burrowed out like the
holes of rats or the nests of insect-vermin, but fuller of
intolerable smells, are crowds of sleepers, each on his foul
truckle-bed coiled up beneath a rug. Holloa here! Come! Let us
see you! Show your face! Pilot Parker goes from bed to bed and
turns their slumbering heads towards us, as a salesman might turn
sheep. Some wake up with an execration and a threat. - What! who
spoke? O! If it's the accursed glaring eye that fixes me, go
where I will, I am helpless. Here! I sit up to be looked at. Is
it me you want? Not you, lie down again! and I lie down, with a
woful growl.

Whenever the turning lane of light becomes stationary for a moment,
some sleeper appears at the end of it, submits himself to be
scrutinised, and fades away into the darkness.

There should be strange dreams here, Deputy. They sleep sound
enough, says Deputy, taking the candle out of the blacking-bottle,
snuffing it with his fingers, throwing the snuff into the bottle,
and corking it up with the candle; that's all I know. What is the
inscription, Deputy, on all the discoloured sheets? A precaution
against loss of linen. Deputy turns down the rug of an unoccupied
bed and discloses it. STOP THIEF!

To lie at night, wrapped in the legend of my slinking life; to take
the cry that pursues me, waking, to my breast in sleep; to have it
staring at me, and clamouring for me, as soon as consciousness
returns; to have it for my first-foot on New-Year's day, my
Valentine, my Birthday salute, my Christmas greeting, my parting
with the old year. STOP THIEF!

And to know that I MUST be stopped, come what will. To know that I
am no match for this individual energy and keenness, or this
organised and steady system! Come across the street, here, and,
entering by a little shop and yard, examine these intricate
passages and doors, contrived for escape, flapping and counter-
flapping, like the lids of the conjurer's boxes. But what avail
they? Who gets in by a nod, and shows their secret working to us?
Inspector Field.

Don't forget the old Farm House, Parker! Parker is not the man to
forget it. We are going there, now. It is the old Manor-House of
these parts, and stood in the country once. Then, perhaps, there
was something, which was not the beastly street, to see from the
shattered low fronts of the overhanging wooden houses we are
passing under - shut up now, pasted over with bills about the
literature and drama of the Mint, and mouldering away. This long
paved yard was a paddock or a garden once, or a court in front of
the Farm House. Perchance, with a dovecot in the centre, and fowls
peeking about - with fair elm trees, then, where discoloured
chimney-stacks and gables are now - noisy, then, with rooks which
have yielded to a different sort of rookery. It's likelier than
not, Inspector Field thinks, as we turn into the common kitchen,
which is in the yard, and many paces from the house.

Well, my lads and lasses, how are you all? Where's Blackey, who
has stood near London Bridge these five-and-twenty years, with a
painted skin to represent disease? - Here he is, Mr. Field! - How
are you, Blackey? - Jolly, sa! Not playing the fiddle to-night,
Blackey? - Not a night, sa! A sharp, smiling youth, the wit of the
kitchen, interposes. He an't musical to-night, sir. I've been
giving him a moral lecture; I've been a talking to him about his
latter end, you see. A good many of these are my pupils, sir.
This here young man (smoothing down the hair of one near him,
reading a Sunday paper) is a pupil of mine. I'm a teaching of him
to read, sir. He's a promising cove, sir. He's a smith, he is,
and gets his living by the sweat of the brow, sir. So do I,
myself, sir. This young woman is my sister, Mr. Field. SHE'S
getting on very well too. I've a deal of trouble with 'em, sir,
but I'm richly rewarded, now I see 'em all a doing so well, and
growing up so creditable. That's a great comfort, that is, an't
it, sir? - In the midst of the kitchen (the whole kitchen is in
ecstasies with this impromptu 'chaff') sits a young, modest,
gentle-looking creature, with a beautiful child in her lap. She
seems to belong to the company, but is so strangely unlike it. She
has such a pretty, quiet face and voice, and is so proud to hear
the child admired - thinks you would hardly believe that he is only
nine months old! Is she as bad as the rest, I wonder?
Inspectorial experience does not engender a belief contrariwise,
but prompts the answer, Not a ha'porth of difference!

There is a piano going in the old Farm House as we approach. It
stops. Landlady appears. Has no objections, Mr. Field, to
gentlemen being brought, but wishes it were at earlier hours, the
lodgers complaining of ill-conwenience. Inspector Field is polite
and soothing - knows his woman and the sex. Deputy (a girl in this
case) shows the way up a heavy, broad old staircase, kept very
clean, into clean rooms where many sleepers are, and where painted
panels of an older time look strangely on the truckle beds. The
sight of whitewash and the smell of soap - two things we seem by
this time to have parted from in infancy - make the old Farm House
a phenomenon, and connect themselves with the so curiously
misplaced picture of the pretty mother and child long after we have
left it, - long after we have left, besides, the neighbouring nook
with something of a rustic flavour in it yet, where once, beneath a
low wooden colonnade still standing as of yore, the eminent Jack
Sheppard condescended to regale himself, and where, now, two old
bachelor brothers in broad hats (who are whispered in the Mint to
have made a compact long ago that if either should ever marry, he
must forfeit his share of the joint property) still keep a
sequestered tavern, and sit o' nights smoking pipes in the bar,
among ancient bottles and glasses, as our eyes behold them.

How goes the night now? Saint George of Southwark answers with
twelve blows upon his bell. Parker, good night, for Williams is
already waiting over in the region of Ratcliffe Highway, to show
the houses where the sailors dance.

I should like to know where Inspector Field was born. In Ratcliffe
Highway, I would have answered with confidence, but for his being
equally at home wherever we go. HE does not trouble his head as I
do, about the river at night. HE does not care for its creeping,
black and silent, on our right there, rushing through sluice-gates,
lapping at piles and posts and iron rings, hiding strange things in
its mud, running away with suicides and accidentally drowned bodies
faster than midnight funeral should, and acquiring such various
experience between its cradle and its grave. It has no mystery for
HIM. Is there not the Thames Police!

Accordingly, Williams leads the way. We are a little late, for
some of the houses are already closing. No matter. You show us
plenty. All the landlords know Inspector Field. All pass him,
freely and good-humouredly, wheresoever he wants to go. So
thoroughly are all these houses open to him and our local guide,
that, granting that sailors must be entertained in their own way -
as I suppose they must, and have a right to be - I hardly know how
such places could be better regulated. Not that I call the company
very select, or the dancing very graceful - even so graceful as
that of the German Sugar Bakers, whose assembly, by the Minories,
we stopped to visit - but there is watchful maintenance of order in
every house, and swift expulsion where need is. Even in the midst
of drunkenness, both of the lethargic kind and the lively, there is
sharp landlord supervision, and pockets are in less peril than out
of doors. These houses show, singularly, how much of the
picturesque and romantic there truly is in the sailor, requiring to
be especially addressed. All the songs (sung in a hailstorm of
halfpence, which are pitched at the singer without the least
tenderness for the time or tune - mostly from great rolls of copper
carried for the purpose - and which he occasionally dodges like
shot as they fly near his head) are of the sentimental sea sort.
All the rooms are decorated with nautical subjects. Wrecks,
engagements, ships on fire, ships passing lighthouses on iron-bound
coasts, ships blowing up, ships going down, ships running ashore,
men lying out upon the main-yard in a gale of wind, sailors and
ships in every variety of peril, constitute the illustrations of
fact. Nothing can be done in the fanciful way, without a thumping
boy upon a scaly dolphin.

How goes the night now? Past one. Black and Green are waiting in
Whitechapel to unveil the mysteries of Wentworth Street. Williams,
the best of friends must part. Adieu!

Are not Black and Green ready at the appointed place? O yes! They
glide out of shadow as we stop. Imperturbable Black opens the cab-
door; Imperturbable Green takes a mental note of the driver. Both
Green and Black then open each his flaming eye, and marshal us the
way that we are going.

The lodging-house we want is hidden in a maze of streets and
courts. It is fast shut. We knock at the door, and stand hushed
looking up for a light at one or other of the begrimed old lattice
windows in its ugly front, when another constable comes up -
supposes that we want 'to see the school.'  Detective Sergeant
meanwhile has got over a rail, opened a gate, dropped down an area,
overcome some other little obstacles, and tapped at a window. Now
returns. The landlord will send a deputy immediately.

Deputy is heard to stumble out of bed. Deputy lights a candle,
draws back a bolt or two, and appears at the door. Deputy is a
shivering shirt and trousers by no means clean, a yawning face, a
shock head much confused externally and internally. We want to
look for some one. You may go up with the light, and take 'em all,
if you like, says Deputy, resigning it, and sitting down upon a
bench in the kitchen with his ten fingers sleepily twisting in his
hair.

Halloa here! Now then! Show yourselves. That'll do. It's not
you. Don't disturb yourself any more! So on, through a labyrinth
of airless rooms, each man responding, like a wild beast, to the
keeper who has tamed him, and who goes into his cage. What, you
haven't found him, then? says Deputy, when we came down. A woman
mysteriously sitting up all night in the dark by the smouldering
ashes of the kitchen fire, says it's only tramps and cadgers here;
it's gonophs over the way. A man mysteriously walking about the
kitchen all night in the dark, bids her hold her tongue. We come
out. Deputy fastens the door and goes to bed again.

Black and Green, you know Bark, lodging-house keeper and receiver
of stolen goods? - O yes, Inspector Field. - Go to Bark's next.

Bark sleeps in an inner wooden hutch, near his street door. As we
parley on the step with Bark's Deputy, Bark growls in his bed. We
enter, and Bark flies out of bed. Bark is a red villain and a
wrathful, with a sanguine throat that looks very much as if it were
expressly made for hanging, as he stretches it out, in pale
defiance, over the half-door of his hutch. Bark's parts of speech
are of an awful sort - principally adjectives. I won't, says Bark,
have no adjective police and adjective strangers in my adjective
premises! I won't, by adjective and substantive! Give me my
trousers, and I'll send the whole adjective police to adjective and
substantive! Give me, says Bark, my adjective trousers! I'll put
an adjective knife in the whole bileing of 'em. I'll punch their
adjective heads. I'll rip up their adjective substantives. Give
me my adjective trousers! says Bark, and I'll spile the bileing of
'em!

Now, Bark, what's the use of this? Here's Black and Green,
Detective Sergeant, and Inspector Field. You know we will come in.
- I know you won't! says Bark. Somebody give me my adjective
trousers! Bark's trousers seem difficult to find. He calls for
them as Hercules might for his club. Give me my adjective
trousers! says Bark, and I'll spile the bileing of 'em!

Inspector Field holds that it's all one whether Bark likes the
visit or don't like it. He, Inspector Field, is an Inspector of
the Detective Police, Detective Sergeant IS Detective Sergeant,
Black and Green are constables in uniform. Don't you be a fool,
Bark, or you know it will be the worse for you. - I don't care,
says Bark. Give me my adjective trousers!

At two o'clock in the morning, we descend into Bark's low kitchen,
leaving Bark to foam at the mouth above, and Imperturbable Black
and Green to look at him. Bark's kitchen is crammed full of
thieves, holding a CONVERSAZIONE there by lamp-light. It is by far
the most dangerous assembly we have seen yet. Stimulated by the
ravings of Bark, above, their looks are sullen, but not a man
speaks. We ascend again. Bark has got his trousers, and is in a
state of madness in the passage with his back against a door that
shuts off the upper staircase. We observe, in other respects, a
ferocious individuality in Bark. Instead of 'STOP THIEF!' on his
linen, he prints 'STOLEN FROM Bark's!'

Now, Bark, we are going up-stairs! - No, you ain't! - YOU refuse
admission to the Police, do you, Bark? - Yes, I do! I refuse it to
all the adjective police, and to all the adjective substantives.
If the adjective coves in the kitchen was men, they'd come up now,
and do for you! Shut me that there door! says Bark, and suddenly
we are enclosed in the passage. They'd come up and do for you!
cries Bark, and waits. Not a sound in the kitchen! They'd come up
and do for you! cries Bark again, and waits. Not a sound in the
kitchen! We are shut up, half-a-dozen of us, in Bark's house in
the innermost recesses of the worst part of London, in the dead of
the night - the house is crammed with notorious robbers and
ruffians - and not a man stirs. No, Bark. They know the weight of
the law, and they know Inspector Field and Co. too well.

We leave bully Bark to subside at leisure out of his passion and
his trousers, and, I dare say, to be inconveniently reminded of
this little brush before long. Black and Green do ordinary duty
here, and look serious.

As to White, who waits on Holborn Hill to show the courts that are
eaten out of Rotten Gray's Inn, Lane, where other lodging-houses
are, and where (in one blind alley) the Thieves' Kitchen and
Seminary for the teaching of the art to children is, the night has
so worn away, being now

almost at odds with morning, which is which,

that they are quiet, and no light shines through the chinks in the
shutters. As undistinctive Death will come here, one day, sleep
comes now. The wicked cease from troubling sometimes, even in this
life.

DOWN WITH THE TIDE

A VERY dark night it was, and bitter cold; the east wind blowing
bleak, and bringing with it stinging particles from marsh, and
moor, and fen - from the Great Desert and Old Egypt, may be. Some
of the component parts of the sharp-edged vapour that came flying
up the Thames at London might be mummy-dust, dry atoms from the
Temple at Jerusalem, camels' foot-prints, crocodiles' hatching-
places, loosened grains of expression from the visages of blunt-
nosed sphynxes, waifs and strays from caravans of turbaned
merchants, vegetation from jungles, frozen snow from the Himalayas.
O! It was very, very dark upon the Thames, and it was bitter,
bitter cold.

'And yet,' said the voice within the great pea-coat at my side,
'you'll have seen a good many rivers, too, I dare say?'

'Truly,' said I, 'when I come to think of it, not a few. From the
Niagara, downward to the mountain rivers of Italy, which are like
the national spirit - very tame, or chafing suddenly and bursting
bounds, only to dwindle away again. The Moselle, and the Rhine,
and the Rhone; and the Seine, and the Saone; and the St. Lawrence,
Mississippi, and Ohio; and the Tiber, the Po, and the Arno; and the
- '

Peacoat coughing as if he had had enough of that, I said no more.
I could have carried the catalogue on to a teasing length, though,
if I had been in the cruel mind.

'And after all,' said he, 'this looks so dismal?'

'So awful,' I returned, 'at night. The Seine at Paris is very
gloomy too, at such a time, and is probably the scene of far more
crime and greater wickedness; but this river looks so broad and
vast, so murky and silent, seems such an image of death in the
midst of the great city's life, that - '

That Peacoat coughed again. He COULD NOT stand my holding forth.

We were in a four-oared Thames Police Galley, lying on our oars in
the deep shadow of Southwark Bridge - under the corner arch on the
Surrey side - having come down with the tide from Vauxhall. We
were fain to hold on pretty tight, though close in shore, for the
river was swollen and the tide running down very strong. We were
watching certain water-rats of human growth, and lay in the deep
shade as quiet as mice; our light hidden and our scraps of
conversation carried on in whispers. Above us, the massive iron
girders of the arch were faintly visible, and below us its
ponderous shadow seemed to sink down to the bottom of the stream.

We had been lying here some half an hour. With our backs to the
wind, it is true; but the wind being in a determined temper blew
straight through us, and would not take the trouble to go round. I
would have boarded a fireship to get into action, and mildly
suggested as much to my friend Pea.

'No doubt,' says he as patiently as possible; 'but shore-going
tactics wouldn't do with us. River-thieves can always get rid of
stolen property in a moment by dropping it overboard. We want to
take them WITH the property, so we lurk about and come out upon 'em
sharp. If they see us or hear us, over it goes.'

Pea's wisdom being indisputable, there was nothing for it but to
sit there and be blown through, for another half-hour. The water-
rats thinking it wise to abscond at the end of that time without
commission of felony, we shot out, disappointed, with the tide.

'Grim they look, don't they?' said Pea, seeing me glance over my
shoulder at the lights upon the bridge, and downward at their long
crooked reflections in the river.

'Very,' said I, 'and make one think with a shudder of Suicides.
What a night for a dreadful leap from that parapet!'

'Aye, but Waterloo's the favourite bridge for making holes in the
water from,' returned Pea. 'By the bye - avast pulling, lads! -
would you like to speak to Waterloo on the subject?'

My face confessing a surprised desire to have some friendly
conversation with Waterloo Bridge, and my friend Pea being the most
obliging of men, we put about, pulled out of the force of the
stream, and in place of going at great speed with the tide, began
to strive against it, close in shore again. Every colour but black
seemed to have departed from the world. The air was black, the
water was black, the barges and hulks were black, the piles were
black, the buildings were black, the shadows were only a deeper
shade of black upon a black ground. Here and there, a coal fire in
an iron cresset blazed upon a wharf; but, one knew that it too had
been black a little while ago, and would be black again soon.
Uncomfortable rushes of water suggestive of gurgling and drowning,
ghostly rattlings of iron chains, dismal clankings of discordant
engines, formed the music that accompanied the dip of our oars and
their rattling in the rowlocks. Even the noises had a black sound
to me - as the trumpet sounded red to the blind man.

Our dexterous boat's crew made nothing of the tide, and pulled us
gallantly up to Waterloo Bridge. Here Pea and I disembarked,
passed under the black stone archway, and climbed the steep stone
steps. Within a few feet of their summit, Pea presented me to
Waterloo (or an eminent toll-taker representing that structure),
muffled up to the eyes in a thick shawl, and amply great-coated and
fur-capped.

Waterloo received us with cordiality, and observed of the night
that it was 'a Searcher.'  He had been originally called the Strand
Bridge, he informed us, but had received his present name at the
suggestion of the proprietors, when Parliament had resolved to vote
three hundred thousand pound for the erection of a monument in
honour of the victory. Parliament took the hint (said Waterloo,
with the least flavour of misanthropy) and saved the money. Of
course the late Duke of Wellington was the first passenger, and of
course he paid his penny, and of course a noble lord preserved it
evermore. The treadle and index at the toll-house (a most
ingenious contrivance for rendering fraud impossible), were
invented by Mr. Lethbridge, then property-man at Drury Lane
Theatre.

Was it suicide, we wanted to know about? said Waterloo. Ha! Well,
he had seen a good deal of that work, he did assure us. He had
prevented some. Why, one day a woman, poorish looking, came in
between the hatch, slapped down a penny, and wanted to go on
without the change! Waterloo suspected this, and says to his mate,
'give an eye to the gate,' and bolted after her. She had got to
the third seat between the piers, and was on the parapet just a
going over, when he caught her and gave her in charge. At the
police office next morning, she said it was along of trouble and a
bad husband.

'Likely enough,' observed Waterloo to Pea and myself, as he
adjusted his chin in his shawl. 'There's a deal of trouble about,
you see - and bad husbands too!'

Another time, a young woman at twelve o'clock in the open day, got
through, darted along; and, before Waterloo could come near her,
jumped upon the parapet, and shot herself over sideways. Alarm
given, watermen put off, lucky escape. - Clothes buoyed her up.

'This is where it is,' said Waterloo. 'If people jump off straight
forwards from the middle of the parapet of the bays of the bridge,
they are seldom killed by drowning, but are smashed, poor things;
that's what THEY are; they dash themselves upon the buttress of the
bridge. But you jump off,' said Waterloo to me, putting his fore-
finger in a button-hole of my great-coat; 'you jump off from the
side of the bay, and you'll tumble, true, into the stream under the
arch. What you have got to do, is to mind how you jump in! There
was poor Tom Steele from Dublin. Didn't dive! Bless you, didn't
dive at all! Fell down so flat into the water, that he broke his
breast-bone, and lived two days!'

I asked Waterloo if there were a favourite side of his bridge for
this dreadful purpose? He reflected, and thought yes, there was.
He should say the Surrey side.

Three decent-looking men went through one day, soberly and quietly,
and went on abreast for about a dozen yards: when the middle one,
he sung out, all of a sudden, 'Here goes, Jack!' and was over in a
minute.

Body found? Well. Waterloo didn't rightly recollect about that.
They were compositors, THEY were.

He considered it astonishing how quick people were! Why, there was
a cab came up one Boxing-night, with a young woman in it, who
looked, according to Waterloo's opinion of her, a little the worse
for liquor; very handsome she was too - very handsome. She stopped
the cab at the gate, and said she'd pay the cabman then, which she
did, though there was a little hankering about the fare, because at
first she didn't seem quite to know where she wanted to be drove
to. However, she paid the man, and the toll too, and looking
Waterloo in the face (he thought she knew him, don't you see!)
said, 'I'll finish it somehow!'  Well, the cab went off, leaving
Waterloo a little doubtful in his mind, and while it was going on
at full speed the young woman jumped out, never fell, hardly
staggered, ran along the bridge pavement a little way, passing
several people, and jumped over from the second opening. At the
inquest it was giv' in evidence that she had been quarrelling at
the Hero of Waterloo, and it was brought in jealousy. (One of the
results of Waterloo's experience was, that there was a deal of
jealousy about.)

'Do we ever get madmen?' said Waterloo, in answer to an inquiry of
mine. 'Well, we DO get madmen. Yes, we have had one or two;
escaped from 'Sylums, I suppose. One hadn't a halfpenny; and
because I wouldn't let him through, he went back a little way,
stooped down, took a run, and butted at the hatch like a ram. He
smashed his hat rarely, but his head didn't seem no worse - in my
opinion on account of his being wrong in it afore. Sometimes
people haven't got a halfpenny. If they are really tired and poor
we give 'em one and let 'em through. Other people will leave
things - pocket-handkerchiefs mostly. I HAVE taken cravats and
gloves, pocket-knives, tooth-picks, studs, shirt-pins, rings
(generally from young gents, early in the morning), but
handkerchiefs is the general thing.'

'Regular customers?' said Waterloo. 'Lord, yes! We have regular
customers. One, such a worn-out, used-up old file as you can
scarcely picter, comes from the Surrey side as regular as ten
o'clock at night comes; and goes over, I think, to some flash house
on the Middlesex side. He comes back, he does, as reg'lar as the
clock strikes three in the morning, and then can hardly drag one of
his old legs after the other. He always turns down the water-
stairs, comes up again, and then goes on down the Waterloo Road.
He always does the same thing, and never varies a minute. Does it
every night - even Sundays.'

I asked Waterloo if he had given his mind to the possibility of
this particular customer going down the water-stairs at three
o'clock some morning, and never coming up again? He didn't think
THAT of him, he replied. In fact, it was Waterloo's opinion,
founded on his observation of that file, that he know'd a trick
worth two of it.

'There's another queer old customer,' said Waterloo, 'comes over,
as punctual as the almanack, at eleven o'clock on the sixth of
January, at eleven o'clock on the fifth of April, at eleven o'clock
on the sixth of July, at eleven o'clock on the tenth of October.
Drives a shaggy little, rough pony, in a sort of a rattle-trap arm-
chair sort of a thing. White hair he has, and white whiskers, and
muffles himself up with all manner of shawls. He comes back again
the same afternoon, and we never see more of him for three months.
He is a captain in the navy - retired - wery old - wery odd - and
served with Lord Nelson. He is particular about drawing his
pension at Somerset House afore the clock strikes twelve every
quarter. I HAVE heerd say that he thinks it wouldn't be according
to the Act of Parliament, if he didn't draw it afore twelve.'

Having related these anecdotes in a natural manner, which was the
best warranty in the world for their genuine nature, our friend
Waterloo was sinking deep into his shawl again, as having exhausted
his communicative powers and taken in enough east wind, when my
other friend Pea in a moment brought him to the surface by asking
whether he had not been occasionally the subject of assault and
battery in the execution of his duty? Waterloo recovering his
spirits, instantly dashed into a new branch of his subject. We
learnt how 'both these teeth' - here he pointed to the places where
two front teeth were not - were knocked out by an ugly customer who
one night made a dash at him (Waterloo) while his (the ugly
customer's) pal and coadjutor made a dash at the toll-taking apron
where the money-pockets were; how Waterloo, letting the teeth go
(to Blazes, he observed indefinitely), grappled with the apron-
seizer, permitting the ugly one to run away; and how he saved the
bank, and captured his man, and consigned him to fine and
imprisonment. Also how, on another night, 'a Cove' laid hold of
Waterloo, then presiding at the horse-gate of his bridge, and threw
him unceremoniously over his knee, having first cut his head open
with his whip. How Waterloo 'got right,' and started after the
Cove all down the Waterloo Road, through Stamford Street, and round
to the foot of Blackfriars Bridge, where the Cove 'cut into' a
public-house. How Waterloo cut in too; but how an aider and
abettor of the Cove's, who happened to be taking a promiscuous
drain at the bar, stopped Waterloo; and the Cove cut out again, ran
across the road down Holland Street, and where not, and into a
beer-shop. How Waterloo breaking away from his detainer was close
upon the Cove's heels, attended by no end of people, who, seeing
him running with the blood streaming down his face, thought
something worse was 'up,' and roared Fire! and Murder! on the
hopeful chance of the matter in hand being one or both. How the
Cove was ignominiously taken, in a shed where he had run to hide,
and how at the Police Court they at first wanted to make a sessions
job of it; but eventually Waterloo was allowed to be 'spoke to,'
and the Cove made it square with Waterloo by paying his doctor's
bill (W. was laid up for a week) and giving him 'Three, ten.'
Likewise we learnt what we had faintly suspected before, that your
sporting amateur on the Derby day, albeit a captain, can be - 'if
he be,' as Captain Bobadil observes, 'so generously minded' -
anything but a man of honour and a gentleman; not sufficiently
gratifying his nice sense of humour by the witty scattering of
flour and rotten eggs on obtuse civilians, but requiring the
further excitement of 'bilking the toll,' and 'Pitching into'
Waterloo, and 'cutting him about the head with his whip;' finally
being, when called upon to answer for the assault, what Waterloo
described as 'Minus,' or, as I humbly conceived it, not to be
found. Likewise did Waterloo inform us, in reply to my inquiries,
admiringly and deferentially preferred through my friend Pea, that
the takings at the Bridge had more than doubled in amount, since
the reduction of the toll one half. And being asked if the
aforesaid takings included much bad money, Waterloo responded, with
a look far deeper than the deepest part of the river, HE should
think not! - and so retired into his shawl for the rest of the
night.

Then did Pea and I once more embark in our four-oared galley, and
glide swiftly down the river with the tide. And while the shrewd
East rasped and notched us, as with jagged razors, did my friend
Pea impart to me confidences of interest relating to the Thames
Police; we, between whiles, finding 'duty boats' hanging in dark
corners under banks, like weeds - our own was a 'supervision boat'
- and they, as they reported 'all right!' flashing their hidden
light on us, and we flashing ours on them. These duty boats had
one sitter in each: an Inspector: and were rowed 'Ran-dan,' which -
for the information of those who never graduated, as I was once
proud to do, under a fireman-waterman and winner of Kean's Prize
Wherry: who, in the course of his tuition, took hundreds of gallons
of rum and egg (at my expense) at the various houses of note above
and below bridge; not by any means because he liked it, but to cure
a weakness in his liver, for which the faculty had particularly
recommended it - may be explained as rowed by three men, two
pulling an oar each, and one a pair of sculls.

Thus, floating down our black highway, sullenly frowned upon by the
knitted brows of Blackfriars, Southwark, and London, each in his
lowering turn, I was shown by my friend Pea that there are, in the
Thames Police Force, whose district extends from Battersea to
Barking Creek, ninety-eight men, eight duty boats, and two
supervision boats; and that these go about so silently, and lie in
wait in such dark places, and so seem to be nowhere, and so may be
anywhere, that they have gradually become a police of prevention,
keeping the river almost clear of any great crimes, even while the
increased vigilance on shore has made it much harder than of yore
to live by 'thieving' in the streets. And as to the various kinds
of water-thieves, said my friend Pea, there were the Tier-rangers,
who silently dropped alongside the tiers of shipping in the Pool,
by night, and who, going to the companion-head, listened for two
snores - snore number one, the skipper's; snore number two, the
mate's - mates and skippers always snoring great guns, and being
dead sure to be hard at it if they had turned in and were asleep.
Hearing the double fire, down went the Rangers into the skippers'
cabins; groped for the skippers' inexpressibles, which it was the
custom of those gentlemen to shake off, watch, money, braces,
boots, and all together, on the floor; and therewith made off as
silently as might be. Then there were the Lumpers, or labourers
employed to unload vessels. They wore loose canvas jackets with a
broad hem in the bottom, turned inside, so as to form a large
circular pocket in which they could conceal, like clowns in
pantomimes, packages of surprising sizes. A great deal of property
was stolen in this manner (Pea confided to me) from steamers;
first, because steamers carry a larger number of small packages
than other ships; next, because of the extreme rapidity with which
they are obliged to be unladen for their return voyages. The
Lumpers dispose of their booty easily to marine store dealers, and
the only remedy to be suggested is t